^^tm^^™ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


THE  HOUSEHOLD 


BY 


MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER 


FOURTH   EDITION. 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY. 
Clje  SRibertftte  J9rr*Jf, 
1896. 


Copyright,  1882, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


PS 


Many  of  these  bits  of  verse,  now  gathered  into  a 
volume,  originally  appeared  in  "  Harpers  Monthly " 
and  "  Bazar  "  "  7^he  Christian  Intelligencer"  " 'Sunday- 
School  Times"  and  elsewhere. 


904128 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MOTH-EATEN 9 

POND- LILIES 12 

TROUBLE 14 

THE  ACADEMY  BELL 15 

ARE  THE  CHILDREN  AT  HOME? .    .    .  18 

BEFORE  THE  LEAVES  FALL 21 

A  VANISHED  HOPE 23 

LOVE-LORN 26 

UNTOLD 29 

TRUST  FOR  THE  DAY 30 

THE  WELCOME 32 

DINNA  CHIDE 34 

AT  THE  OLD  FARM 36 

KNIGHT  AND  LADY 39 

DON 4° 

ASHES  OF  ROSES 43 

IN  GALILEE 45 

MY  PRIMROSE 47 

OUR  OWN 49 

THE  EDELWEISS 51 

THE  MARKET-BELL 52 


6  Contents. 

PAGE 

FOLLOW  ME 0 54 

MANNA 56 

THE  SADNESS  OF  SUMMER 57 

WILD  WEATHER  OUTSIDE 60 

THE  PATCHWORK  QUILT 62 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  NEST 65 

HARVEST 67 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS 69 

"ELIZABETH,  AGED  NINE" 71 

ERIC'S  FUNERAL 75 

CHRYSANTHEMUMS 86 

BITTER-SWEET 88 

A  SUMMER  MORNING ....    90 

PASTURE  LANDS 92 

BEFORE  THE  FROST 94 

IN  COMMON  DAYS 97 

AN  EVENING  REVERIE 99 

A  WINTER  SUNSET 102 

THE  TROUBLESOME  BABY 104 

THE  FIRST  FIRE  OF  THE  SEASON 106 

WHITER  THAN  SNOW 109 

AN  AUTUMN  DAY in 

OUR  LOST 114 

GROWING  OLD 116 

AT  CHRISTMAS-TIDE 119 

THE  GATE  OF  PRAYER 122 

BESIDE  THE  BARS 125 

SUMMER  FRUITS 127 


Contents.  7 

PAGE 

VALDEMAR  THE  HAPPY 129 

PEACE 134 

IN  AN  UPPER  ROOM 136 

MERCHANTMEN 138 

THE  NIGHT  OUR  DARLING  DIED 140 

TRINITY  CHIMES 143 

A  NEW  DAY 146 

THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS 147 

ICE-CROWNED 149 

LILIES 151 

THE  OLD  CHURCH 154 

SABBATH  DAY.    . 158 

DINNA  BIDE  AWA' 161 

THE  ARGIVE  MOTHER 163 

CASTING  THE  FIRST  VOTE 167 

CHILDREN'S  SLUMBER  SONG 169 

PILGRIMS 170 

NEW-MOWN  HAY 172 

A  GARDEN  OF  SPICES 175 

A  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR  ....                 177 

THANKSGIVING 180 

BAYARD  TAYLOR 183 

IN  MY  NEIGHBOR'S  GARDEN 185 

THE  HONEY-BIRD 187 

OCTOBER 190 

MOTHER-COMFORT 195 

MARTYRS 198 

MERCEDES    .                                               200 


8  Contents. 

PAGE 

THE  FOUNDLING 202 

STRAWBERRY  TIME ,         .  204 

THE  ENGLISH  FARM-LABORER'S  SUNDAY 207 

A  TWILIGHT  MEMORY 210 

MY  LORD  AND  MY  GOD 213 

THE  BETTER  LIFE 215 

HITHERTO 217 

THE  HEAVEN-SIDE 219 

A  VESPER  SONG 221 

A  RAINY  DAY 224 

A  MASQUERADE   . 227 

THE  RIVER 229 

A  MAPLE  LEAF 232 

"EVEN  so,  COME" 233 

THE  EVER-OPEN  WAY 235 

MOTHER'S  WORK 237 

IN  THE  KING'S  BANQUETING  HOUSE 239 

THE  FAIRY'S  GIFT 242 

WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY 245 

THE  MINUET 248 

THE  CHRISTMAS  BALL:  1780 252 

A  LOST  PEARL 255 

A  SEA-FOG 257 


POEMS   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


MOTH-EATEN. 

T  HAD  a  beautiful  garment 

And  I  laid  it  by  with  care  ; 
I  folded  it  close,  with  lavender  leaves, 

In  a  napkin  fine  and  fair  : 
"  It  is  far  too  costly  a  robe,"  I  said, 

"  For  one  like  me  to  wear." 

So  never  at  morn  or  evening 

I  put  my  garment  on ; 
It  lay  by  itself,  under  clasp  and  key, 

In  the  perfumed  dusk  alone,  — 
Its  wonderful  broidery  hidden 

Till  many  a  day  had  gone. 

There  were  guests  who  came  to  my  portal, 
There  were  friends  who  sat  with  me, 


Moth-Eaten. 

And  clad  in  soberest  raiment 

I  bore  them  company  ; 
I  knew  that  I  owned  a  beautiful  robe, 

Though  its  splendor  none  might  see. 

There  were  poor  who  stood  at  my  portal, 
There  were  orphaned  sought  my  care  ; 

I  gave  them  the  tenderest  pity, 
But  had  nothing  beside  to  spare ; 

I  had  only  the  beautiful  garment, 
And  the  raiment  for  daily  wear. 

At  last,  on  a  feast-day's  coming, 
I  thought  in  my  dress  to  shine  ; 

I  would  please  myself  with  the  lustre 
Of  its  shifting  colors  fine  ; 

I  would  walk  with  pride  in  the  marvel 
Of  its  rarely  rich  design. 

So  out  from  the  dust  I  bore  it  — 

The  lavender  fell  away  — 
And  fold  on  fold  I  held  it  up 

To  the  searching  light  of  day. 
Alas  !  the  glory  had  perished 

While  there  in  its  place  it  lay. 


Moth-Eaten. 

Who  seeks  for  fadeless  beauty 
Must  seek  for  the  use  that  seals, 

To  the  grace  of  a  constant  blessing, 
The  beauty  that  use  reveals, 

For  into  the  folded  robe  alone 
The  moth  with  its  blighting  steals. 


POND-LILIES. 

TN  early  morning,  when  the  air 

Is  full  of  tender  prophecy, 
And  rose-hue  faint  and  pearl-mist  fair 
Are  hints  of  splendor  yet  to  be, 

The  lilies  open.     Gleaming  white, 
Their  fluted  cups  like  onyx  shine, 

And  golden-hearted,  in  the  light, 
They  hold  the  summer's  rarest  wine. 

Ah,  love,  what  mornings  thou  and  I 
Once  idly  drifted  through,  afloat 

Among  the  lilies,  with  the  sky 

Cloud-curtained  o'er  our  tiny  boat ! 

Noon  climbed  apace  with  ardent  feet ; 

The  goblets  shut,  whose  honey- dew 
Was  overbrimmed  with  subtle  sweet 

While  yet  the  silver  dawn  was  new. 


Pond- Lilies.  13 


The  pomp  of  royal  crowning  lay 
On  daisied  field  and  dimpling  dell ; 

And  on  the  blue  hills  far  away 
In  dazzling  waves  the  glory  fell ; 

And,  flashing  to  our  measured  stroke, 
The  waters  seemed  a  path  of  gems, 

Beneath  whose  clear  refraction  broke 
A  grove  with  mirrored  fronds  and  stems. 

In  music  on  the  sparkling  shore 
The  plashing  ripples  fell  asleep : 

We  laid  aside  the  dripping  oar, 
For  our  delight  we  could  not  keep. 

In  all  the  splendor  farther  on 

We  missed  the  morning's  maiden  blush ; 
The  soft  expectancy  was  gone,  — 

The  brooding  haze,  the  trembling  flush. 


TROUBLE. 

/^\NE  folds  the  little  white  hands,  and  lays  a  flower 

between, 
And   sees   death's   lilies    pale,   where   life's    sweet    rose 

hath  been, 
And   aches   through   all  her   heart  beside  the  baby  face 

serene. 

One  smiles  a  brave  good-morrow,  and  walks  with  even 
tread, 

The  while  she  bears  the  burden  of  a  great  and  name- 
less dread ; 

God  wot,  —  a  living  grief  is  worse  than  the  peace  that 
folds  the  dead. 


THE   ACADEMY   BELL. 

HP  HE  rich  air  is  sweet  with  the  breath  of  September, 

The  sumach  is  staining  the  hedges  with  red  ; 
Soft  rests  on  the  hill-slopes  the  light  we  remember, 
The  glory  of  days  which  so  long  ago  fled,  — 
When,  brown-cheeked  and  ruddy, 

Blithe-hearted  and  free, 
The  summons  to  study 

We  answered  with  glee. 
Listen,  oh  !  listen  once  more  to  the  swell 
Of  the  masterful,  merry  Academy  bell ! 

It  sounds  not  in  vain  over  mountain  and  valley, 

That  tocsin  which  gathers  the  far-scattered  clans  ; 
From  playtime  and  leisure  fleet-footed  they  rally, 
Brave  lads  and  bright  lasses,  o'erflowing  with  plans  ; 
From  croquet  and  cricket 

To  blackboard  and  map, 
Is  but  shoou.ig  a  wicket ; 
No  fear  of  mishap. 


1 6  The  Academy  Bell. 

Oh  hark  !  how  it  echoes  through  dingle  and  dell, 
The  jocund,  the  earnest  Academy  bell ! 

They  fly,  at  its  call,  from  soft  mother  caresses ; 
The  boy  will  not  tarry,  the  girl  cannot  wait ; 
So  the  round  head  close-clipped  and  the  loose  flowing 

tresses 

Together  flash  out  from  the  vine-trellised  gate  ; 
And  the  house  that  was  holden 

By  revel  supreme, 
Is  wrapped  in  the  golden 
Fair  peace  of  a  dream. 
To  sisters  and  mothers  how  silvern  the  swell 
Of  the  rest-bringing,  easeful  Academy  bell. 

The  path  by  the  river,  where  willows  are  drooping, 

Is  radiant  with  children.     The  long  city  street, 
All  busy  with  traffic,  makes  room  for  their  trooping, 
And  rings  to  the  rush  of  their  beautiful  feet. 
For  the  poet  and  preacher, 

The  man  of  affairs, 
And  the  gentle  home-teacher, 

O'er-burdened  with  cares, 
Alike  spare  a  moment  to  wishing  them  well, 
Who  speed  when  they  hear  the  Academy  bell. 


The  Academy  Self.  17 

God  bless   them,   our  darlings !      God    give   them   full 

measure 

Of  joy  at  the  fountains  of  wisdom  and  truth ; 
We  tenderly  view  the  enchantment  of  pleasure 
Which  royally  lies  on  the  days  of  their  youth ; 
For,  brown-cheeked  and  ruddy, 

When  children  at  home, 
That  summons  to  study 

Once  called  us  to  come ; 
And  voices  departed  we  hear  in  the  swell 
Of  the  never-forgotten  Academy  bell. 


ARE  THE   CHILDREN   AT  HOME? 


T^ACH  day  when  the  glow  of  sunset 

Fades  in  the  western  sky, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  tripping  lightly  by, 
I  steal  away  from  my  husband, 

Asleep  in  his  easy- chair, 
And  watch  from  the  open  doorway 

Their  faces  fresh  and  fair. 

Alone  in  the  dear  old  homestead, 

That  once  was  full  of  life, 
Ringing  with  girlish  laughter,  — 

Echoing  boyish  strife,  — 
We  two  are  waiting  together ; 

And  oft,  as  the  shadows  come, 
With  tremulous  voice  he  calls  me  : 

"  It  is  night !  are  the  children  home  ? " 


Are  the  Children  at  Home?  19 

"  Yes,  love  !  "  I  answer  him  gently, 

"  They  're  all  home  long  ago ;  " 
And  I  sing,  in  my  quivering  treble, 

A  song  so  soft  and  low, 
Till  the  old  man  drops  to  slumber, 

With  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
And  I  tell  to  myself  the  number 

Home  in  the  Better  Land. 

Home,  where  never  a  sorrow 

Shall  dim  their  eyes  with  tears  ! 
Where  the  smile  of  God  is  on  them 

Through  all  the  summer  years  ! 
I  know,  —  yet  my  arms  are  empty, 

That  fondly  folded  seven, 
And  the  mother  heart  within  me 

Is  almost  starved  for  heaven. 

Sometimes,  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 

I  only  shut  my  eyes, 
And  the  children  are  all  about  me, 

A  vision  from  the  skies  : 
The  babes  whose  dimpled  fingers 

Lost  the  way  to  my  breast, 
And  the  beautiful  ones,  the  angels, 

Passedf  to  the  world  of  the  blest. 


2o  Are  the  Children  at  Hornet 

With  never  a  cloud  upon  them, 

I  see  their  radiant  brows  : 
My  boys  that  I  gave  to  freedom,  — 

The  red  sword  sealed  their  vows  ! 
In  a  tangled  Southern  forest, 

Twin  brothers,  bold  and  brave 
They  fell ;  and  the  flag  they  died  for, 

Thank  God  !  floats  over  their  grave. 

A  breath,  and  the  vision  is  lifted 

Away  on  wings  of  light, 
And  again  we  two  are  together, 

All  alone  in  the  night. 
They  tell  me  his  mind  is  failing, 

But  I  smile  at  idle  fears ; 
He  is  only  back  with  the  children, 

In  the  dear  and  peaceful  years. 

And  still  as  the  summer  sunset 

Fades  away  in  the  west, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  trooping  home  to  rest, 
My  husband  calls  from  his  corner  : 

"  Say,  love  !  have  the  children  come  ?  " 
And  I  answer,  with  eyes  uplifted  : 

"  Yes,  dear  !  they  are  all  af  home  !  " 


BEFORE  THE  LEAVES  FALL. 


T  WONDER  if  oak  and  maple, 

Willow  and  elm  and  all, 
Are  stirred  at  heart  by  the  coming 

Of  the  day  their  leaves  must  fall. 
Do  they  think  of  the  yellow  whirlwind, 

Or  know  of  the  crimson  spray, 
That  shall  be  when  chill  November 

Bears  all  their  leaves  away  ? 

Perhaps  —  beside  the  water 

The  willow  bends,  serene 
As  when  her  young  leaves  glistened 

In  a  mist  of  golden  green ; 
But  the  brave  old  oak  is  flushing 

To  a  wine-red,  dark  and  deep, 
And  maple  and  elm  are  blushing 

The  blush  of  a  child  asleep. 


22  Before  the  Leaves  Fall. 

"  If  die  we  must,"  the  leaflets 

Seem  one  by  one  to  say ; 
"  We  will  wear  the  colors  of  gladness 

Until  we  pass  away. 
No  eyes  shall  see  us  falter ; 

And,  before  we  lay  it  down, 
We  '11  wear,  in  the  sight  of  all  the  earth, 

The  year's  most  kingly  crown." 

So,  trees  of  the  stately  forest, 

And  trees  by  the  trodden  way, 
You  are  kindling  into  glory 

This  soft  autumnal  day. 
And  we  who  gaze  remember 

That  more  than  all  they  lost, 
To  hearts  and  trees  together, 

May  come  through  the  ripening  frost. 


A  VANISHED   HOPE. 


O  WEET  with  the  scents  of  the  summer, 

White  with  the  dew  and  the  sun, 
Wee  as  the  robes  of  the  fairies, 
She  folded  them  one  by  one. 

Royally  fair  was  the  raiment, 

Though  none  but  herself  might  see 

How  the  heart  with  the  hand  had  labored 
For  the  Prince  who  was  yet  to  be  ! 

Into  those  tiny  garments 

Was  more  than  of  needle  wrought  — 
Hours  of  loving  fancies, 

Beautiful  flights  of  thought. 


24  A  Vanished  Hope. 

By  lane  and  road  were  burning, 
In  splendor  of  crimson  dyes, 

Maple  and  elm  and  sumach, 
Shaming  the  sunset  skies. 

She  smiled  from  her  chamber  window  : 
"  Ah,  fade,  bright  leaves  !  "  she  said, 

"  For  I  '11  be  glad  with  my  baby, 
When  all  the  leaves  are  dead  !  " 

Cold  is  the  heaven  above  her, 
Cloudy  and  dark  the  day, 

As  she  looks  again  in  sorrow 
That  is  slow  to  pass  away. 

Useless  the  treasures  of  linen, 
And  the  cobweb  frosts  of  lace ; 

Her  babe  on  mother's  bosom 
Found  briefest  resting-place. 

All  night  she  hears  the  north  wind, 
She  feels  the  rain  and  the  snow ; 

Whenever  they  fall  on  her  darling, 
Over  her  heart  they  go. 


A  Vanished  Hope.  25 

Sleep  hath  no  fetter  to  bind  her, 

Ever  its  spell  will  break  ; 
At  the  dream  of  a  touch  like  a  roseleaf, 

The  grief  returns  to  ache. 

Comfort  her  not  with  the  angels, 

Since  —  changing  her  day  to  night  — 

Some  pitiless  angel  carried 

Her  firstborn  out  ot  her  sight ! 


LOVE-LORN. 


TN  her  cage  by  my  window  swings  a  bird, 

A  beautiful  bird  with  golden  wing, 
And  all  day  long,  by  a  memory  stirred, 
In  a  faint  little  treble  she  tries  to  sing. 

I  list  to  the  twitter,  so  soft  and  low, 

To  the  quavering  trill  that  breaks  in  twain ; 

The  silver  song  she  recalls,  I  know,  — 
The  song  she  tries  to  repeat  in  vain. 

In  April  days  of  the  budding  leaves 
A  mate  was  hers,  with  a  tuneful  breast ; 

But  the  summer  long,  to  the  time  of  sheaves, 
She  was  all  alone  in  the  tiny  nest. 


Love- Lorn.  27 

And  in  and  out,  through  the  peace  profound 
Of  the  silent,  slumberous,  summer  noon,  — 

A  tremulous,  touching,  pathetic  sound,  — 
She  wove  the  thought  of  a  transient  tune. 

The  jar-fly  broke  with  his  cadenced  whir, 

A  comma  of  sound  in  a  silent  space  ; 
The  south  wind  moved  with  a  gentle  stir 

Through  the  shadowy  leaves  of  his  hiding-place. 

The  lilies  stood  in  their  vestal  robes, 

White  as  a  nun's,  by  the  garden  gate ; 
And,  light  as  a  feather-puff,  the  globes 

Of  the  thistle  rose  at  the  waft  of  fate. 

Still  feebly  rippled  across  the  air 

The  low  love-note  of  a  vanished  song,  — 

The  moan  of  a  hopeless,  desolate  prayer,  — 

Till  the  days  grew  short  and  the  nights  grew  long. 

"  O  Bird,  my  Bird,  you  never  were  meant 
To  warble  songs  for  the  world  to  hear  ! 

You  were  made  for  the  stillness  of  shy  content, 
And  the  quiet  round  of  a  homely  sphere ; 


28  Love-Lorn. 

"  For  the  patient  waiting  of  brooding  days, 
And  the  overflood  of  a  mother's  heart ; 

For  tender  pride  in  the  winning  ways 

Of  your  wee  ones  dear,  from  the  world  apart. 

"  And  why,  in  a  role  that  is  not  yours 
Do  you  strive  to  act,  with  a  lonely  pain  ? 

Forget  the  grief  that  your  heart  endures ; 
j>egin  once  more  to  be  glad  again." 

But  nothing  my  Bird  hath  answered  me  ; 

Only  again  and  again  hath  tried 
The  sweet,  sad  song  or  the  song  of  glee  — 

The  strain  of  the  singer,  her  mate,  that  died. 


UNTOLD. 


A    FACE  may  be  woeful-white  to  cover  a  heart  that 's 

aching ; 

And  a  face   may  be   full  of  light   over  a   heart   that 's 
breaking  ! 

'T  is  not  the  heaviest  grief  for  which  we  wear  the  willow ; 
The  tears  bring  slow  relief  which  only  wet  the  pillow. 

Hard  may  be  burdens  borne,  though  friends  would  fain 

unbind  them ; 
Harder   are   crosses  worn  where   none  save  Christ   can 

find  them. 

For  the  loved  who  leave  our  side  our  souls  are  well-nigh 

riven ; 
But   ah !    for  the    graves  we    hide,   have    pity,   tender 

Heaven  ! 

Soft   be   the  words   and   sweet  that  soothe  the   spoken 

sorrow ; 
Alas  !  for  the  weary  feet  that  may  not  rest  to-morrow. 


TRUST  FOR  THE   DAY. 


"DECAUSE  in  a  day  of  my  days  to  come 

There  waiteth  a  grief  to  be, 
Shall  my  heart  grow  faint,  and  my  lips  be  dumb, 
In  this  day  that  is  bright  for  me  ? 


Because  of  a  subtle  sense  of  pain, 
Like  a  pulse-beat,  threaded  through 

The  bliss  of  my  thought,  shall  I  dare  refrain 
From  delight  in  the  pure  and  true  ? 

In  the  harvest-field  shall  I  cease  to  glean, 
Since  the  bloom  of  the  Spring  has  fled  ? 

Shall  I  veil  mine  eyes  to  the  noonday  sheen, 
Since  the  dew  of  the  morn  hath  sped  ? 


Trust  for  the  Day.  31 

Nay,  phantom  ill  with  the  warning  hand, 

Nay,  ghosts  of  the  weary  past,  — 
Serene,  as  in  armor  of  faith,  I  stand  ; 

Ye  may  not  hold  me  fast. 

Your  shadows  across  my  sun  may  fall, 

But  as  bright  the  sun  shall  shine ; 
For  I  walk  in  a  light  ye  cannot  pall, 

The  light  of  the  King  divine. 

And  whatever  He  sends  from  day  to  day, 

I  am  sure  that  His  name  is  Love ; 
And  He  never  will  let  me  lose  my  way 

To  my  rest  in  His  home  above. 


THE  WELCOME. 


A  NITHER  bairn  cam'  hame  — 

Hame  to  mither  and  me  ! 
It  was  yestreen  in  the  gloamin'  — 

When  scarce  was  light  to  see 
The  wee  bit  face  o'  the  darlin'  — 
That  its  greetin'  cry  was  heard, 
And  crowdin'  close  we  made  a  place 
To  haud  anither  bird  ! 

Sax  little  bonnie  mouths, 

Ah  me  !  tak'  muckle  to  fill, 
But  to  grudge  the  bit  t'  the  seventh 

For  mither  and  me  were  ill ! 
Oh  !  nestle  up  closer,  dearie, 

Lie  saft  on  the  snawy  breast, 
Where  fast  life's  fountain  floweth, 

When  thy  twa  warm  lips  are  prest. 


The  Welcome.  33 

The  rich  man  counteth  his  cares 

By  the  shinin'  gowd  in  's  hand, 
By  's  ships  that  sail  on  the  sea, 

By  's  harvests  that  whiten  the  land. 
The  puir  man  counteth  his  blessings 

By  the  ring  o'  voices  sweet, 
By  the  hope  that  glints  in  bairnies'  een, 

By  the  sound  o'  bairnies'  feet. 

An'  it 's  welcome  hame,  my  darlin' ! 

Hame  to  mither  an'  me  ! 
An'  it 's  never  may  ye  find  less  o'  love 

Than  the  love  ye  brought  wi'  ye  ! 
Cauld  are  the  blasts  o'  the  wild  wind, 

An'  rough  the  warld  may  be, 
But  warm  's  the  hame  o'  the  wee  one 

In  the  hearts  o'  mither  an'  me  ! 


^^Br^ 


DINNA  CHIDE. 

AH  !  dinna  chide  the  mither  ! 

.     Ye  may  na  hae  her  lang ; 
Her  voice,  abune  your  baby  rest, 

Sae  saftly  crooned  the  sang  ; 
She  thocht  ye  ne'er  a  burden, 

She  greeted  ye  wi'  joy, 
An'  heart  an'  hand  in  carin'  ye, 
Foun'  still  their  dear  employ. 

Her  han'  has  lost  its  cunnin', 

It 's  tremblin'  now  and  slow, 
But  her  heart  is  leal  an'  lovin', 

As  it  was  lang  ago  ! 
An'  though  her  strength  may  wither, 

An'  faint  her  pulses  beat, 
Nane  will  be  like  the  mither, 

Sae  steadfast,  true,  an'  sweet ! 


Dinna  Chide. 

Ye  maun  revere  the  mither, 

Feeble  an'  auld  an'  gray ; 
The  shinin'  ones  are  helpin'  her 

Adoon  her  evenin'  way  ! 
Her  bairns  wha  wait  her  yonder, 

Her  gude  mon  gone  before  : 
She  wearies  —  can  ye  wonder? — •. 

To  win  to  that  braw  shore  ! 

Ah  !  dinna  chide  the  mither  ! 

O  lip,  be  slow  to  say 
A  word  to  vex  the  gentle  heart 

Wha  watched  your  childhood's  day ; 
Ay,  rin  to  heed  the  tender  voice 

Wha  crooned  the  cradle  sang, 
An'  dinna  chide  the  mither,  sin' 

Ye  may  na  hae  her  lang  ! 


35 


AT  THE   OLD   FARM. 

YES>  'tis  true.    The  blinds  are  closed,  and  the  front 

door  streams  with  crape. 
Surely  through  the  house  last  eve  stole  a  vague  and  awful 

shape, 

Dimly  seen  by  only  one — viewless,  soundless,  to  the  rest : 
Only  one  descried  the  arrow  ere  its  death-pang  pierced 

his  breast. 

Why,  they  say  he  kissed  his  wife  !     She  was  sitting  by  the 

door, 
With  her  patient,  work-worn  hands  folded,  for  the  day 

was  o'er ; 
And  the  twilight  wind  stirred  softly,  tapped  the  lilacs  on 

the  pane, 
While  belated  bees  swung  slowly  homeward  through  the 

scented  lane. 


At  the  Old  Farm. 


37 


"  Ruth,"  he  said,  and- touched  her  brow,  gently  as  a  lover 

might,  — 
Stooped  and  kissed  her,  sitting  there.      She  was  struck 

with  sudden  fright. 
"  Ah  !  what  is  it,  John?  "  she  cried ;   "  do  you  think  I  'm 

going  to  die?" 
"No!"  he  answered,  "no,  dear  wife.     If  'tis  any  one, 

't  is  I." 

Full  ten  years  or  more  had  passed  since  he  'd  given  her 
a  word 

Thoughtful,  feeling-like,  caressing.  She  could  scarce  be- 
lieve she  heard 

Rightly  now.  Their  talk,  you  see,  was,  most  part,  about 
the  farm  — 

Butter,  eggs,  the  new  Alderney,  making  hay ;  they  meant 
no  harm. 

Kindly,  honest,  Christian  folk,  both  the  deacon  and  his 

wife ; 

Only  somehow  they  had  lost  all  the  romance  out  of  life. 
And  the  love  which  they  began  with,  like  a  flower  o'er- 

grown  with  weeds, 
Struggled  on,  half-choked,  half-buried,  in  the  strife  for 

worldly  needs. 


38  At  the  Old  Farm. 

Well,  the   night  came  on  apace.     All  the  usual  chores 

were  done, 
And  they  went  to  bed  as  usual;  rising  always  with  the 

sun, 
T  was  not  worth  while  burning  candles ;  and  at  midnight, 

lo  !  a  call 
Woke  the  sleepers.      One  was  taken,  one  was  left  —  and 

that  was  all. 

Lucy  told  me  of  the  kiss.     On  her  way  to  meet  the  choir 
She  had  stopped  to  see  Aunt  Ruth,  —  she  and  Neighbor 

Brown's  Desire. 
They  were  not  surprised,  this  morning,  when  they  heard 

that  he  was  dead ; 
That  he  must  have  had  a  warning  was  what  our  Lucy  said. 

But  I  think  the  real  love,  the  true  love,  —  that  never  dies, 
Once  two  loyal  hearts  have  known  it,  —  wakened  'neath 

those  evening  skies ; 

And  't  will  be  a  comfort  sweet,  in  her  lonely  time  to  be, 
That,  before   he   went,   he    spoke   to  the   "  dear  wife " 

tenderly. 


KNIGHT  AND   LADY. 

TLJE  lifted  his  hand  to  his  plumed  chapeau, 

He  bowed  to  her  beauty  and  rode  away,  — 
He  through  the  glorious  world  to  go, 
She  in  the  lone  little  home  to  stay. 

Swift  as  a  vision  he  passed  the  fields 

Where  the  wild  rose  blushed  amid  golden  grain ; 
She  took  up  the  weapons  which  woman  wields 

When  fain  from  herself  she  would  hide  her  pain. 

Out  in  the  thickest  of  noble  strife 
He  felt  the  rapture  of  conflict  brave ; 

And  she,  shut  into  her  quiet  life, 

Half  deemed  its  narrowness  like  the  grave. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  when  the  war  was  past, 

And  the  knight  came  back  wearing  valor's  stars, 

'T  was  the  lady  who,  wan  and  pale,  at  last 
Gave  token  of  wounds  whjch  had  left  their  scars. 


DON. 


"DLACK  as  a  crow,  with  a  satin  sheen 

On  his  well-brushed  coat,  —  with  plenty  to  eat, 
Oats  and  corn  and,  along  between, 
The  daintiest  pasture,  rich  and  sweet,  — 
In  his  old  age  Don  leads  an  easy  life, 
Though  he  spent  his  youth  in  the  thick  of  the  strife. 
Now,  watch  him  while  the  procession  comes : 
Ah,  yes,  good  fellow,  you  hear  the  drums, 
Bugles,  and  trumpets  ;  you  're  brave  to-day ; 
Head  up,  ears  pricked,  you  are  back  in  the  fray. 
He  carried  his  master  at  Gettysburg. 

Poor  Tom  1     I  Ve  his  diary  here  on  the  shelf,  — 
My  dearest  treasure,  a  bit  of  himself,  — 
Pencilled  at  night  by  the  bivouac, 
Pencilled  in  saddle  on  Don's  broad  back, 
Some  of  it  scrawled  in  the  hospital, 
Some  inside  of  the  prison's  walL 


Don.  41 

It  tells  of  pain  and  hunger  and  thirst,  — 
Terse  and  brief  when  it  tells  of  the  worst, 
Jolly  and  bright  with  a  boy's  delight 
When  the  boys  are  safe  over  march  and  fight. 
Scraps  of  Latin  are  here  and  there, 
And  once  a  tress  of  bonny  brown  hair. 
There  's  never  the  breath  of  a  weak  complaint, 
Nor  the  sign  of  a  word  that  would  vex  a  saint, 
For  Tom  was  bold  and  tender  and  true  ! 
I  tell  you,  lady,  his  mother  knew  : 
From  the  cradle  onward,  Tom,  my  son, 
Was  a  lad  you  could  pin  your  faith  upon. 


Did  I  hear  the  cannon  ?    Ay,  far  and  away, 

As  I  sat  at  my  sewing,  its  dull,  faint  boom, 

Ever  and  often,  that  weary  day, 

Over  miles  of  clover,  came  straight  to  my  room. 

At  times  I  would  drop  my  seam,  and  pray, 

For  a  shudder  crept  o'er  me  again  and  again ; 

But  I  was  as  calm  as  a  statue  when 

I  learned,  at  last,  the  terrible  price 

I  had  paid  for  my  country.     Cold  as  ice 

I  waited  to  see  my  dear,  dead  son  ; 

'T  was  a  comfort  that  father  brought  home  poor  Don. 


42  Don. 

Do  you  wonder  I  Ve  taken  care  of  him 

All  these  years,  till  his  eye  is  dim, 

And  his  fire  has  fled,  and  his  vigor  wanes  ? 

Tho'  naught  but  the  memory  remains 

Of  the  steed  he  was,  yet  a  sudden  flash 

Will  waken  the  thrill  of  the  cavalry  dash,  — 

As  now,  when  grand  with  bugles  and  drums 

Gaily  the  holiday  regiment  comes  ! 

Ah  !  Don,  good  Don,  you  may  eat  your  fill, 

And  browse  in  the  meadow  lot  at  will, 

For  Tom  is  asleep,  just  over  the  hill, 

The  master  you  carried  at  Gettysburg. 


ASHES  OF  ROSES. 

"E^RIEND,  in  whose  eyes  I  looked  to-day, 

Whose  hand  in  clinging  clasp  held  mine, 
The  tender  word  I  could  not  say 

That  from  my  heart  went  forth  to  thine. 

So  lately  all  thy  life  was  fair, 

And  bathed  in  morning's  loveliest  glow ; 
So  lately  came  the  frosty  air 

That  laid  its  choicest  blossoms  low. 

Alone  by  depth  of  mother-love, 

I  measure  depth  of  mother-loss, 
And  feel  how  thick  the  clouds  above 

Thy  weary  pathway  of  the  cross. 

Yet  sorrow  reigns  a  queen  on  earth. 

At  many  a  door,  a  guest  unbid, 
She  lifts  the  latch ;  nor  less  the  hearth 

She  darkens  when  her  form  is  hid 


Ashes  of  Roses. 

From  stranger  eyes,  when  asphodels 

Spring,  spear-like,  by  no  new-made  grave, 

Nor  gloom  of  mourning-garment  tells 
How  keen  a  blow  her  sword-thrust  gave. 

With  insight  clear  I  comprehend 

Thy  stricken  life  that  dreads  the  sun, 

Thy  sleepless  nights  so  slow  to  end, 
Thy  days  that  creep  in  silence  on. 

Still,  whether  fade  the  rose  of  love 

Before  a  blighting 'wind  of  fate, 
Or,  angel-borne  to  realms  above, 

It  bloom  anew  at  heaven's  gate,  — 

If  once  its  fragrance  blessed  our  life, 

We  never  wholly  lose  the  past ; 
Its  ashes  are  with  sweetness  rife, 

And  make  us  richer  to  the  last. 

And  pain  hath  gems  that  purely  shine, 

"  Through  suffering  perfect,"  graven  where 

They  catch  the  light  from  Love  Divine  : 
Shall  we  complain,  such  gems  who  bear  ? 


IN      GALILEE. 


'"THE  Master  walked  in  Galilee, 
Across  the  hills  and  by  the  sea, 
And  in  whatever  place  he  trod, 
He  felt  the  passion  of  a  God. 

The  twelve,  who  deemed  him  King  of  men, 
Longed  for  the  conquering  hour,  when  • 
The  peasant's  robe  without  a  seam 
Should  be  the  purple  of  their  dream. 

Yet  daily  from  his  lips  of  love 
Fell  words  their  thoughts  as  far  above 
As  wisdom's  utmost  treasure,  piled 
Upon  the  stammering  of  a  child. 

Like  frost  on  flower,  like  blight  on  bloom, 
His  speech  to  them  of  cross  and  tomb ; 
Nor  could  their  grieving  spirits  see 
One  gleam  of  hope  in  Galilee. 


46  In  Galilee. 

What  booted  it  that  he  should  rise, 
Were  death  to  hide  him  from  their  eyes? 
What  meant  the  promised  throne  divine, 
Were  earth  to  be  an  empty  shrine  ? 

Low  drooped  the  skies  above  the  band 
Too  dull  the  Lord  to  understand. 
Alas  !  as  slow  of  heart  are  we, 
Abiding  oft  in  Galilee. 


MY  PRIMROSE. 


TV/TY  little  primrose,  gentle  flower, 

The  darling  of  how  many  an  hour 
When  thou  and  I  together  gaze 
In  sheltered  peace  on  stormful  days. 

Above  thee  broods  a  quiet  hush ; 
And  yet  the  shadow  of  a  blush, 
That  once  hath  stirred  the  vestal  air, 
Is  tranced  upon  thy  petals  fair. 

Nor  bird,  nor  butterfly,  nor  bee, 
Hath  ever  whispered  love  to  thee, 
Nor  sunbeam  ventured  to  caress, 
Too  bold,  thy  sweet  unconsciousness. 

Why,  then,  the  dream  of  roseate  glow, 
So  faint  upon  thy  virgin  snow  ? 
Canst  thou  divine  how  dear  thou  art, 
White  winter  blossom,  to  my  heart? 


48  My  Primrose. 

How  in  thy  dainty  grace  I  see 
A  pledge  of  lovely  things  to  be, 
And  wait,  when  thou  hast  had  thy  day, 
To  greet  the  flowery  fields  of  May? 

The  wildwood  treasures,  coy  and  sweet, 
The  bloom  of  gardens,  and  the  fleet, 
Large  rapture  of  the  orchard's  foam, 
In  that  delightful  time  to  come, 

Will  say  but  this,  which  thou  dost  say 
So  softly  to  my  soul  to-day : 
"  The  Lord  who  keeps  his  promises 
Is  near  thee  ever,  near  to  bless. 

"  No  spoken  word  his  heart  forgets, 
The  hour  for  leaf  and  bud  he  sets ; 
Who  cares  for  fragile  flower  shall  be 
.       A  strong  defence  to  thine  and  thee." 

Smile  on,  my  little  primrose  fair, 
Shed  faintest  perfume  on  the  air ; 
The  winds  may  rave,  the  rain  may  fall, 
But  we  are  happy  through  it  all. 


OUR    OWN. 

TF  I  had  known  in  the  morning 
How  wearily  all  the  day 
The  words  unkind 
Would  trouble  my  mind 
I  said  when  you  went  away, 
I  had  been  more  careful,  darling, 
Nor  given  you  needless  pain ; 
But  we  vex  "  our  own  " 
With  look  and  tone 
We  might  never  take  back  again. 

For  though  in  the  quiet  evening 
You  may  give  me  the  kiss  of  peace, 
Yet  well  it  might  be 
That  never  for  me 
The  pain  of  the  heart  should  cease. 
How  many  go  forth  in  the  morning 
Who  never  come  home  at  night ; 
And  hearts  have  broken 
For  harsh  words  spoken, 
That  sorrow  can  ne'er  set  right. 


50  Our  Own. 

We  have  careful  thought  for  the  stranger, 
And  smiles  for  the  sometime  guest, 

But  oft  for  "  our  own  " 

The  bitter  tone, 

Though  we  love  our  own  the  best. 
Ah  !  lip  with  the  curve  impatient ; 
Ah  !  brow  with  that  look  of  scorn, 

T  were  a  cruel  fate 

Were  the  night  too  late 
To  undo  the  work  of  morn. 


THE   EDELWEISS. 


"pAR  up  on  sternest  Alpine  crests, 
Where  winds  of  tempest  blow, 
They  say  that,  all  unfearing,  rests 

A  flower  upon  the  snow,  — 
A  tiny  flower,  pale  and  sweet, 

That  blooms  o'er  breath  of  ice  ; 
And  glad  are  they,  on  any  day, 

Who  find  the  Edelweiss. 

Ah  !  far  on  heights  of  sorrows  cold, 

Where  tears  are  dropping  slow, 
Some  hearts  have  found,  and,  finding,  told 

How  fair  a  flower  may  grow. 
With  petals  pale,  but  perfume  rare, 

It  garlands  days  of  ice  ; 
And  blessed  are  they  who,  weeping,  pray, 

And  find  Faith's  Edelweiss. 


THE   MARKET-BELL. 


OWEET  from  his  pipe  the  piper  drew 

A  sound  that  ravished  all  men's  ears, 
And  soared  ethereal  to  the  blue 

Wherein  the  skylark  disappears. 
The  listening  throng,  or  grave  or  gay, 
Were  hushed  beneath  the  music's  sway. 

When  sudden,  on  the  silver  notes, 
A  loud,  discordant  clamor  fell ; 

A  shout  arose  from  eager  throats  : 

"  The  market-bell !  the  market-bell !  " 

Swift  rushed  the  audience  from  the  place ; 

The  piper  piped  to  empty  space. 

A  bitter  story  this,  —  antique, 

And  full  of  cynic  irony. 
The  keen-edged  humor  of  the  Greek,  — 

Hath  it  no  sting  for  thee  and  me  ? 
Or  glad,  or  wise,  or  sad,  or  fain, 
Dear  Nature  wooes  us  not  in  vain  ! 


The  Market- Bell.  53 

Her  mystic  measures  round  us  roll, 

We  sit  in  silence  at  her  feet ; 
And,  awed  and  thrilled,  we  own  control 

As  potent  as,  alas  !  't  is  fleet. 
For  list !  for  hark  !  we  know  it  well  — 
Earth's  loud,  imperious  market  bell. 


FOLLOW    ME. 


A  /I"  ASTER  and  servant,  through  the  storm  and  sleet 
And  thickening  darkness,  toiled  with  weary  feet. 

Fierce  winds  came  hurtling  from  the  mountain  height, 
The  pines  moaned  sadly  in  the  bitter  night. 

Flickering  the  lantern  shed  a  fitful  glow 
On  paths  unbroken,  drifted  deep  with  snow. 

Courage  and  fortitude  alike  outworn, 
The  servant  faltered,  frighted  and  forlorn. 

"  Home  beckons  fair,"  he  sighed,  "  aye  sweet  and  fair, 
But  I  shall  never  live  to  enter  there." 

Eyes  clear  as  stars,  lips  sweet  as  rose  in  bloom, 
The  Master  bent  above  him  in  the  gloom. 

"  Arise  !  "  he  said,  "  we  cross  an  evil  land  ; 
The  tempest's  wrath  is  wild  on  every  hand. 


Follow  Me.  55 

"  But  I  before  thee  go  to  lead  the  way, 
And  I  will  guide  thee  to  the  dawn  of  day. 

"  Thou  hast  but  this,  to  set  thy  feet  where  mine 
Make  prints,  step  after  step,  a  track  for  thine. 

"  O  faint  of  heart,  let  craven  terrors  flee. 
I  am  thy  Lord ;  arise  and  follow  me." 

Master  Divine,  by  times  the  upward  way 
Lies  nearer  midnight  than  the  dawn  of  day. 

The  chill  wind  smites,  the  dark  pines  murmur  low, 
Faith's  waning  tapers  shine  with  fitful  glow. 

The  servant  needs  thy  look  of  majesty ; 
Before  its  light  his  trembling  fears  shall  flee. 

O  bend  with  lips  as  sweet  as  rose  in  bloom ; 

O  bend  with  eyes  like  stars,  and  pierce  the  gloom. 

Say  royally  :  "  Arise  and  follow  Me  ; 

Step  after  step,  my  feet  make  prints  for  thee." 


MANNA. 


"T"*  WAS  in  the  night  the  manna  fell, 
That  fed  the  hosts  of  Israel, 


Enough  for  each  day's  fullest  store 
And  largest  need  —  enough,  no  more. 

For  wilful  waste,  for  prideful  show, 
God  sent  not  angels'  food  below. 

Still  in  our  nights  of  deep  distress 
The  manna  falls  our  hearts  to  bless. 

And,  famished,  as  we  cry  for  bread, 
With  heavenly  food  our  lives  are  fed. 

And  each  day's  need  finds  each  day's  store 
Enough.     Dear  Lord,  what  want  we  more? 


THE  SADNESS  OF  SUMMER. 

S~\  BEAUTIFUL  Summer  !  thou  bringest  again 

The  pomp  of  thy  life  to  the  children  of  men  ; 
The  light,  once  of  Eden,  lies  fair  on  thy  hills, 
The  echoes  of  Paradise  sing  in  thy  rills ; 
Sweet,  sweet  are  thy  winds  as  they  wander  and  sigh 
Through  the  far  tops  of  pines  and  the  green  spears  of  rye* 
And  warm  on  thy  meadows  lies,  fold  upon  fold, 
Thy  mantle  that  glimmers  with  ruby  and  gold. 

O  beautiful  Summer  !  thy  roses  are  free, 

And  toss  in  their  bloom  like  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 

They  are  crimson  like  wine,  they  are  white  like  the  snow; 

And  the  breath  of  their  cups  is  of  censers  aglow  ; 

Thy  lilies  are  pure,  and  all  proudly  they  stand, 

Unchallenged  and  chaste  in  the  jubilant  land. 

No  charm  is  less  potent,  no  splendor  is  gone 

From  the  slow-stealing  eve  or  the  swift-waking  dawn. 

So,  Summer  the  royal,  the  fault  is  not  thine 

If  thou  bear  to  our  spirits  more  shadow  than  shine,  — 


58  The  Sadness  of  Summer. 

If,  grasping  thy  roses  with  olden  desire, 
Too  soon  of  their  passionate  fragrance  we  tire ; 
In  all  the  rich  chords  of  thy  manifold  strain, 
If  to  us  be  a  minor,  keen-edged  as  with  pain, 
Thou  bringest  back  Eden,  —  an  angel  of  strife 
Still  bars  from  our  taking  its  green  tree  of  life. 

We  are  losing  the  strength  of  the  days  that  were  young, 

Our  hopes  are  no  longer  like  banners  outflung ; 

We  have  parted  with  friends  who  were  leal  at  our  side, 

The  voices  of  children  in  silence  have  died. 

Of  the  plans  which  we  planned,  of  the  works  which  we 

wrought, 

Of  the  turreted  castles  of  glorious  thought, 
How  little  remains  !  they  are  crumbling  to  dust, 
The  robes  are  moth-eaten,  the  weapons  are  rust. 

And  all  in  rebellion  we  turn  from  the  good 

Thou  offerest  now.     In  perverseness  of  mood 

We  cry  to  thee  :  "  Come  not  with  smile  nor  with  gift, 

The  cloud  of  our  darkness  thy  beam  shall  not  rift ; 

Laugh  on  with  thy  lilies,  and  garland  the  hours 

With  infinite  tinting  of  exquisite  flowers ; 

Sweet,  sweet  let  thy  winds  in  their  gladness  go  by, 

For  us  there  is  naught  but  to  sorrow  and  die." 


The  Sadness  of  Summer.  59 

O  beautiful  Summer  !  we  flout  thee  in  vain ; 

There    is    patience    with    thee,   though    we,    thankless, 

complain. 

Thy  heart  is  the  mother's.     The  mother  knows  best 
When  to  let  the  grieved  child  just  lie  close  to  her  breast, 
With  soft  arms  to  clasp  it,  with  kisses  to  cheer, 
With  a  calm  word  to  soothe  it :  "  My  love  and  my  dear, 
Wait  only, — -the  trouble  will  pass  with  the  day." 
We  hear  the  sweet  whisper,  we  're  fain  to  obey. 


WILD   WEATHER  OUTSIDE. 

V\/ILD  weather  outside  where  the  brave  ships  go, 

And  fierce  from  all  quarters  the  four  winds  blow  • 
Wild  weather  and  cold,  and  the  great  waves  swell, 
With  chasms  beneath  them  as  black  as  hell. 
The  waters  frolic  in  Titan  play, 
They  dash  the  decks  with  an  icy  spray, 
The  spent  sails  shiver,  the  lithe  masts  reel, 
And  the  sheeted  ropes  are  as  smooth  as  steel. 
And  oh,  that  the  sailor  were  safe  once  more 
Where  the  sweet  wife  smiles  in  the  cottage  door  ! 

The  little  cottage,  it  shines  afar, 

O'er  the  lurid  seas,  like  the  polar  star. 

The  mariner  tossed  in  the  jaws  of  death 

Hurls  at  the  storm  a  defiant  breath ; 

Shouts  to  his  mates  through  the  writhing  foam, 

"  Courage  !  please  God,  we  shall  yet  win  home  !  " 

Frozen  and  haggard  and  wan  and  gray, 

But  resolute  still,  —  't  is  the  sailor's  way ; 

And  perhaps  —  at  the  fancy  the  stern  eyes  dim  — 

Somebody  's  praying  to-night  for  him. 


Wild  Weather  Outside.  61 

Ah  me,  through  the  drench  of  the  bitter  rain, 
How  bright  the  picture  that  rises  plain  ! 
Sure  he  can  see,  with  her  merry  look, 
His  little  maid  crooning  her  spelling-book ; 
The  baby  crows  from  the  cradle  fair ; 
The  grandam  nods  in  her  easy-chair  : 
While  hither  and  yon,  with  a  quiet  grace, 
A  woman  flits,  with  an  earnest  face. 
The  kitten  purrs  and  the  kettle  sings, 
And  a  nameless  comfort  the  picture  brings. 

Rough  weather  outside,  but  the  winds  of  balm 

Forever  float  o'er  that  isle  of  calm. 

O  friends  who  read,  over  tea  and  toast, 

Of  the  wild  night's  work  on  the  storm-swept  coast,  — 

Think,  when  the  vessels  are  overdue, 

Of  the  perilous  voyage,  the  baffled  crew, 

Of  stout  hearts  battling  for  love  and  home 

'Mid  the  cruel  blasts  and  the  curdling  foam, 

And  breathe  a  prayer,  from  your  happy  lips, 

For  those  who  must  go  "  to  the  sea  in  ships ;  " 

Ask  that  the  sailor  may  stand  once  more 

Where  the  sweet  wife  smiles  in  the  cottage  door. 


THE   PATCHWORK  QUILT. 

TN  sheen  of  silken  splendor, 

With  glinting  threads  of  gold, 
I  Ve  seen  the  priceless  marvels 

Once  hung  in  halls  of  old, 
Where  fair  hands  wrought  the  lily, 

And  brave  hands  held  the  lance, 
And  stately  lords  and  ladies 

Stepped  through  the  courtly  dance. 

I  Ve  looked  on  rarer  fabrics, 

The  wonders  of  the  loom, 
That  caught  the  flowers  of  summer, 

And  captive  held  their  bloom ; 
But  not  their  wreathing  beauty, 

Though  fit  for  queens  to  wear, 
Can  with  one  household  treasure, 

That 's  all  my  own,  compare. 


The  Patchwork  Quilt.  63 

It  has  no  golden  value, 

The  simple  patchwork  spread,  — 
Its  squares  in  homely  fashion 

Set  in  with  green  and  red ; 
But  in  those  faded  pieces 

For  me  are  shining  bright, 
Ah  !  many  a  summer  morning, 

And  many  a  winter  night. 

The  dewy  breath  of  clover, 

The  leaping  light  of  flame, 
Like  spells  my  heart  come  over, 

As  one  by  one  I  name 
These  bits  of  old-time  dresses  — 

Chintz,  cambric,  calico  — 
That  looked  so  fresh  and  dainty 

On  my  darlings  long  ago. 

This  violet  was  mother's ; 

I  seem  to  see  her  face, 
That  ever  like  a  sunrise 

Lit  up  the  shadiest  place. 
This  buff  belonged  to  Susan ; 

That  scarlet  spot  was  mine  ; 
And  Fannie  wore  this  pearly  white, 

Where  purple  pansies  shine. 


64  The  Patchwork  Quilt. 

I  turn  my  patchwork  over  — 

A  book  with  pictured  leaves  — 
And  I  feel  the  lilac  fragrance, 

And  the  snow-fall  on  the  eaves. 
Of  all  my  heart's  possessions, 

I  think  it  least  could  spare 
The  quilt  we  children  pieced  at  home 

When  mother  dear  was  there. 


THE   BUILDING  OF  THE   NEST. 


HPHEY  'LL  come  again  to  the  apple-tree  - 

Robin  and  all  the  rest  — 
When  the  orchard  branches  are  fair  to  see, 

In  the  snow  of  the  blossom  drest ; 
And  the  prettiest  thing  in'  the  world  will  be 

The  building  of  the  nest. 

Weaving  it  well,  so  round  and  trim, 

Hollowing  it  with  care,  — 
Nothing  too  far  away  for  him, 

Nothing  for  her  too  fair,  — 
Hanging  it  safe  on  the  topmost  limb, 

Their  castle  in  the  air. 

Ah  !  mother-bird,  you  '11  have  weary  days 
When  the  eggs  are  under  your  breast, 

And  shadow  may  darken  the  dancing  rays 
When  the  wee  ones  leave  the  nest ; 

But  they  '11  find  their  wings  in  a  glad  amaze, 
And  God  will  see  to  the  rest. 


66  The  Building  of  the  Nest. 

So  come  to  the  trees  with  all  your  train 
When  the  apple  blossoms  blow  ; 

Through  the  April  shimmer  of  sun  and  rain, 
Go  flying  to  and  fro ; 

And  sing  to  our  hearts  as  we  watch  again 
Your  fairy  building  grow. 


HARVEST. 

O  PRING  hath  the  morning  gladness, 

The  hope  of  budding  leaves  ; 
And  Summer  in  her  queenly  lap 

The  wealth  of  noon  receives  ; 
But  Autumn  hath  the  twilight's  crown, 

The  joy  of  garnered  sheaves. 

Where  late  in  stately  phalanx 

The  ribboned  corn  was  seen, 
Where  the  golden  wheat  was  waving, 

And  the  oats  in  silver  sheen, 
And  where  the  buckwheat  snow  was  white, 

Hath  the  reaper's  sickle  been. 

In  clouds  the  purple  aster 

Enfolds  the  hillsides  bare  ; 
The  sumach  lifts  its  vivid  plumes 

Like  flame  ;  the  misty  air 
Hath  hints  of  rainbow  splendors 

Estray  and  captive  there. 


68  Harvest. 

The  hidden  seed  that  slumbered 
So  safe  beneath  the  snow, 

With  thrills  of  life  was  quickened, 
And  could  not  help  but  grow, 

When  pierced  the  sun's  entreaties 
The  frozen  mould  below. 

By  tender  love-caressing, 

By  silent  drops  of  dew, 
Mid  sudden  storms  of  passion 

And  heats  of  wrath  it  grew, 
Till  the  fields  were  ripe  to  harvest, 

And  the  year's  long  work  was  through. 

The  mother-earth  is  tired  — 
No  child  on  mother-breast 

Lies  soft  till  after  birth-throes  ; 
Toil  giveth  right  to  rest ; 

And  all  the  joy  of  harvest 
With  the  peace  of  God  is  blest. 


APPLE   BLOSSOMS. 


A  LL  day  in  the  green,  sunny  orchard, 
When  May  was  a  marvel  of  bloom, 
I.  folio  wed  the  busy  bee-lovers 

Down  paths  that  were  sweet  with  perfume. 

The  one  perfect  cluster  I  sought  for 
Was  not  in  the  orchard  for  me ; 

It  swung  on  the  edge  of  a  forest, 

From  the  bough  of  a  wild  apple-tree  — 

A  tree  that  no  thrift  of  the  farmer 
Had  cared  in  its  life  to  protect, 

All  twisted  and  stunted  and  barren, 
The  orphan  of  nature's  neglect. 


70  Apple  Blossoms. 

That,  lone  in  the  lavish  Spring  beauty, 
Bore  only  one  blossoming  spray,  — 

But  that,  in  its  delicate  tinting, 

The  blossom  I  'd  looked  for  all  day  ! 

The  soul  of  the  tree  in  its  prison 

Had  thrilled  to  the  passion  of  Spring, 

And  given  itself  in  its  answer  — 

The  beggar- maid's  "Yes  "  to  the  king. 

So  told  me  the  gray-bearded  painter, 

And  showed  me  the  branch  that  he  broke, 

All  glowing  and  sweet  on  the  canvas 
The  while  that  he  dreamily  spoke. 


"ELIZABETH,   AGED   NINE." 

/"~\UT  of  the  way  in  a  corner 

Of  our  dear  old  attic  room, 
Where  bunches  of  herbs  from  the  hillside 

Shake  ever  a  faint  perfume, 
An  oaken  chest  is  standing  — 

With  hasp  and  padlock  and  key  — 
Strong  as  the  hands  that  made  it 

On  the  other  side  of  the  sea. 

When  the  winter  days  are  dreary, 

And  we  're  out  of  heart  with  life, 
Of  its  crowding  cares  are  weary 

And  sick  of  its  restless  strife, 
We  take  a  lesson  in  patience 

From  the  attic  corner  dim, 
Where  the  chest  holds  fast  its  treasure, 

A  warder  dark  and  grim  : 


72  "Elizabeth,  Aged  Nine" 

Robes  of  an  antique  fashion  — 

Linen  and  lace  and  silk  — 
That  time  has  tinted  with  saffron, 

Though  once  they  were  white  as  milk ; 
Wonderful  baby  garments, 

Broidered,  with  loving  care, 
By  fingers  that  felt  the  pleasure 

As  they  wrought  the  ruffles  rare. 

A  sword,  with  the  red  rust  on  it, 

That  flashed  in  the  battle-tide, 
When,  from  Lexington  to  Concord, 

Sorely  men's  hearts  were  tried  ; 
A  plumed  chapeau  and  a  buckle, 

And  many  a  relic  fine  ; 
And  all  by  itself  the  sampler, 

Framed  in  by  berry  and  vine. 

Faded  the  square  of  canvas, 

Dim  is  the  silken  thread  — 
But  I  think  of  white  hands  dimpled, 

And  a  childish,  sunny  head  ; 
For  here  in  cross  and  tent  stitch, 

In  a  wreath  of  berry  and  vine, 
She  worked  it  a  hundred  years  ago, 

"  Elizabeth,  aged  nine." 


"Elizabeth,  Aged  Nine?'  73 

In  and  out  in  the  sunshine 

The  little  needle  flashed, 
And  out  and  in  on  the  rainy  day 

When  the  sullen  drops  down  plashed, 
As  close  she  sat  by  her  mother  — 

The  little  Puritan  maid  — 
And  did  her  piece  on  the  sampler 

Each  morn  before  she  played. 

You  are  safe  in  the  crystal  heavens, 

"  Elizabeth,  aged  nine," 
But  before  you  went  you  had  troubles 

Sharper  than  any  of  mine. 
The  gold-brown  hair  with  sorrow 

Grew  white  as  drifted  snow, 
And  your  tears  fell  here,  slow-staining 

This  very  plumed  chapeau. 

When  you  put  it  away,  its  wearer 

Would  need  it  never  more,  — 
By  a  sword-thrust  learning  the  secrets 

God  keeps  on  yonder  shore. 
But  you  wore  your  grief  like  glory ; 

Not  yours  to  yield  supine, 
Who  wrought  in  your  patient  childhood, 

"  Elizabeth,  aged  nine." 


74  "  Elizabeth,  Aged  Nine." 

Out  of  the  way  in  a  corner, 

With  hasp  and  padlock  and  key, 
Stands  the  oaken  chest  of  my  fathers 

That  came  from  over  the  sea. 
The  hillside  herbs  above  it 

Shake  odors  faint  and  fine, 
And  here  on  its  lid  is  a  garland 

To  "  Elizabeth,  aged  nine." 

For  love  is  of  the  immortal, 

And  patience  is  sublime, 
And  trouble  's  a  thing  of  every  day, 

That  toucheth  every  time ; 
And  childhood  sweet  and  sunny, 

Or  womanly  truth  and  grace, 
In  the  dusk  of  the  way  light  torches, 

And  cheer  earth's  lowliest  place. 


ERIC'S     FUNERAL. 


'"HIRED  ?  Yes,  a  little,  I  believe.  I  'm  not  so  very 
strong, 

And  older  than  I  was,  my  dear :  I  'm  sure  it  won't  be 
long 

Before  my  turn  comes.  Life  is  sweet,  but  surely  sweeter 
far, 

Where  we  shall  find  our  faded  youth,  beyond  the  morning- 
star. 

I  Ve  been  to  Eric's  funeral  —  my  old  friend  Eric  Gray. 
To  think  that  he  is  gone  !     Ah,  well !  how  peaceful-like 

to-day 
He  looked,   as   there   he  lay  at  rest  in  narrow  coffined 

space, 
The  snow-white  lilies  on  his  breast,  the  death-white  on 

his  face  ! 


j6  Eric's  Funeral. 

I  mind  him  years  and  years  ago.      A  half-remembered 

dream, 

A  feather-flake  of  falling  snow  that  melts  upon  a  stream, 
To  me  has  yesterday  become.      My  memory  fails  with 

age, 
But  all  that  filled  my  early  home  is  like  a  pictured  page. 


I  saw  him  first  at  father's  house.     They  held  the  meeting 

there 
On  Wednesday  evenings,  and  the  church  convened  for 

praise  and  prayer ; 

The  old  and  young  together  sat,  and  lifted  up  the  psalm 
In  tones  that  seemed  the  phrase  to  fit,  with  blending 

cadence  calm. 


Not  men  of  many  words  were  they,  grave-browed  and 

stern  and  strong ; 
Yet    on    Predestination    they    would    argue    loud    and 

long,  — 
With  keenest  blades  of  logic,  and  with  hammer  blows  of 

will, 
The   while   the   women    listened   there   in   acquiescence 

still. 


Eric's  Funeral.  77 

"  Society  "  was  what  they  called  the  Presbyterian  band 
Of  earnest-hearted   folk   who  tried   to  keep  the  Lord's 

command,  — 
Though  hard  as  iron  it  might  press,  and  blight  their  lives 

with  pain,  — 
Who  took  earth's  joy  with  thankfulness,  and  patient  bore 

its  bane. 

Once  more  I  see,  Jhrough  years  of  gloom,  the  candles 

burning  bright, 
The  row  of  chairs  around  the  room,  the  table  covered 

white, 
The  Bible -opened  at  "the   place,"  and   father  waiting 

there, 
A  light  upon  his  reverent  face,  and  on  his  silver  hair. 

By  ones  and  twos  the  people  came,  till  all  the  chairs  were 

filled ; 
.Then  one  upon  the  Holy  Name  would  call,  and,  as  God 

willed, 
Would  bid  Him  deal  with  this  His  flock,  yet  haply  in 

His  love, 
Would  dare  entreat  Him  smite  the  rock,  and  feed  them 

from  above. 


78  Eric's  Funeral. 

"  The  Lord 's  my  Shepherd,  I  '11  not  want ;  He  makes  me 

down  to  lie 

In  pastures  green  ;  He  leadeth  me  the  quiet  waters  by :  " 
The  sweet  old  words,  the  sweet  old  tune,  they  bore  our 

spirits  higher 
Than  all  the  tortured  music  of  the  cultured  modern  choir. 

It  was  the  psalm  their  lips  had  learned  beside  the  mother's 

knee, 
Where   Scotia's   purple   heather  burned,  or   dashed   the 

Northern  Sea. 
Oh,  loud  and  clear  the  anthem  rolled ;  I  often  hear  it 

still, 
As,  rippling  down  from  streets  of  gold,  its  echoes  near  me 

thrill. 

Slow  waned  the  sacred  hour.     At  last  the  closing  words 

were  said ; 
Then  swift  the  sparkling  moments  passed,  slipped  off  a 

silver  thread 
Of  laughter,  innocent  and  low,  while  youths  and  maidens 

met, 
And  lingered,  talking,  loath  to  go,  like  youths  and  maidens 

yet. 


Eric's  Funeral.  79 

You  see  yourself  in  yonder  glass  ?    Well,  I  was  once  like 

you, 
As  softly  flushed,  as  dimple-sweet,  when  all  my  life  was 

new. 
My  mother  made  me  braid  my  hair  and  keep  it  smooth 

and  plain ; 
She  feared  that  curls  would  be  a  snare ;  she  would  not 

have  me  vain. 

And  often  as   my  brothers   told  what  this   or   that  one 

said 
Of  compliment    or    courtesy,   lest   it    should    turn    my 

head, 

She  gave  a  flavor  of  reproof —  a  dash  of  bitter-sweet  — 
To  such  light  words ;  for  beauty's  bloom  the  immortal  soul 

might  cheat. 

There  was  but  one  who  never  seemed  to  see  that  I  was 

fair, 
That  in  my  eyes  the  sunlight  dreamed,  and  danced  upon 

my  hair ; 

And  that  was  Eric.     So  I  set  my  heart  on  Eric  Gray  — 
For  ever  what  we   may  not   have,  that  most  we   prize 
alway. 


8o  Eric's  Funeral. 

I  showed  it  not  by  look  or  sign  —  that  would  have  been  a 

shame  — 
But  in  my  heart  I  made  his  shrine,  and  softly  named  his 

name 
In  whispers  only  God  could  hear,  where,  kneeling  by  my 

bed 
At  night   and   morning,  God   was  near,  and  heard  the 

prayers  I  said. 

"  Let  none  despise  thy  youth,"  was  bid  to  Timothy  of  old. 
None  could  despise  young  Eric's  truth,  his  bearing  frank 

and  bold. 

Among  his  fellows  there  he  stood,  in  stature  lifted  high, 
Like  some  straight  pine-tree  of  the  wood  that  towers  to 

the  sky. 

The  elders  listened  when  he  spoke,  the   minister  took 

heed 
(And  in  those  days  the  minister  was  some  one  grand 

indeed). 
I  thrilled  with  pride  to  hear  his  praise,  and  still  perversely 

tried 
To  blame  him  for  his  rigid  ways,  and  have  my  blame 

denied. 


Eric's  Funeral.  81 

The  sunlight  wooes  the  forest  leaf,  the  moonlight  wooes 

the  sea, 

So  by  attraction's  subtle  grace  was  Eric  drawn  to  me  ; 
But  all  the  more   I  loved  him,   I  was  iced  in  maiden 

pride, 
And   shy  and   cold   and  silent  whene'er  he  sought  my 

side,  — 

Till  came  at  last  my  radiant  hour  of  triumph  and  delight : 
"  He  loved  me."     By  that  gracious  dower  the  world  for 

me  grew  bright ; 
My  heart  was  like  a  cradled  nest,  where  through  enchanted 

days 
There  lived  a  sweet-voiced  singing-guest  that  sang   his 

love  always. 

"  What  parted  us?"     For  Eric  Gray  had  wife  and  chil- 
dren dear, 

.And  I,  in  Scottish  phrase,  "  have  lived  my  lane  "  this 
many  a  year. 

A  widowed  wife  will  wear  for  him  the  widow's  shrouding 
veil, 

Though  she  was  never  first  whose  robes  in  densest  woe 
will  trail. 


82  Eric's  Funeral. 

"  Who  is  that  happy  girl?  "  they  said,  who  saw  me  at  that 

time, 
When  common  days  went  trippingly,  like  tuneful  words 

that  rhyme. 

But  Eric's  mother  did  not  smile.     She  thought  that  levity 
111  suited  one  whom  he,  "  my  son,"  had  chosen  his  bride 

to  be. 

So  when,  for  very  rapture,  in  the  glory  of  my  life,  — 
The   color  and  the   perfume,  of  which   its   bloom  was 

rife, — 

I  let  my  gladness  overflow,  and  acted  like  the  child 
I  was,  she  talked  to  Eric  with  warning  accents  mild, 

And  bade  me  read  the  Proverbs,  where  the  prudent  wife 

is  praised. 
I   listened,   little  pleased ;  and  more  —  I  felt  incensed, 

amazed. 

My  dear,  if  you  would  like  to  make  a  sinner  of  a  saint, 
Just  take  her  to  the  Bible,  with  an  air  of  vexed  complaint. 

I  had  not  joined  the  church.     I  knew  within  me,  sweet 

and  clear, 
A  tenderness,  as  if  that  One  Divinely  Good  were  near ; 


Eric's  Funeral.  83 

I  loved  that  Presence,  but  my  heart  accepted  not  the 

creed 
That  made  me  willing  to  be  lost,  if  thus  the  Lord  had 

need. 

The  gentle  words  that  Jesus  spoke  were  bread  of  life  to 

me ; 

But,  overlaid  with  doctrines  fierce  of  duty  and  decree, 
I   could   not   say  I  took  them   all,  as   father  thought  I 

should, 
And  as  at  worship,  night  and  morn,  he  often  prayed  I 

would. 

Eric,  he  often  talked  to  me,  and  urged  me,  still  in  vain, 
To  go  before  the  elders  and  to  let  them  make  it  plain  ; 
And  so  our  lovers'  interviews  grew  into  hot  debate 
Upon  Electing  Love,  and  Faith,  and  Mankind's  Lost  Estate. 

At  last  one  day,  with  mournful  face,  he  said,  "  It  is  a  sin 
To  marry,  if  not  in  the  Lord.     All  glorious  within 
Should  be  the  daughter  of  the  King."     I,  smiling,  set  him 

free. 
Heart's  love,  true  love,  is  in  the  Lord ;  but  that  he  did 

not  see. 


84  Eric's  Funeral. 

He  married  Jennie  Maclntyre.     She  'd  tried  to  win  him 

long. 
They   say   his   life   has   not   been   quite   as   merry  as  a 

song. 
He  gathered  wealth  of  lands  and  gold,  his  vessels  crossed 

the  sea, 
But   his  stately  home  was  grim  and  cold,  as  what  else 

could  it  be 


With  her?     "You're  sorry  for  my  life"?     Nay,  darling, 

all  is  best : 

I  'm  surer  of  it  as  my  sun  leans  down  the  golden  west. 
I  was  too  quick  and  passionate,  perhaps,  for  Eric  Gray, 
And  I  have  lived  in  God's  content,  safe-folded,  all  my 

way. 


But  there  at  Eric's  funeral,  the  lilies  on  his  breast, 

The  lilies  and  the  sheaf  of  wheat,  and  the  aged  face  at 

rest, 
With  something  of  the  look  it  wore,  the  young  look  back 

again  — 
It  brought  the  old  days  here  once  more,  the  pleasure  and 

the  pain. 


Eric's  Funeral.  85 

And  all  my  heart  went  forward,  past  the  shadow  and  the 

cross, 
Even  to  that  home  where  perfect  love  hath  never  thorn  nor 

loss ; 
Where  neither  do  they  marry,  nor  in  marriage  are  they 

given, 
But  are  like  unto  the  angels  in  God's  house,  which  is 

Heaven. 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS. 

V\7HEN  the  last  red  leaves   are  shining  in  the  rich 

October  sun, 
When  the  twilight,  early  falling,  melts  in  dreamy  dusk 

away, 

Ere  the  sweet  cicada's  chirping  in  the  aftermath  is  done, 
Comes  my  favorite  flower  of  autumn,   to   illume  the 
pensive  day. 

Pensive,  though  in  stately  splendor,  sits   the   Year,   her 

toiling  o'er,  — 
Pensive  still,  though  on  her  forehead  gleam  the  jewels 

of  a  queen ; 
For  her  roses  and  her  lilies  bloom  around  her  feet  no 

more, 

And  her  waving  fields  have  bent  them  to  the  sickle 
bright  and  keen. 


Chrysanthemums.  87 

With  a  fragrance  aromatic,  with  a  wild  and  careless  grace, 
As  if  somehow  to  the  garden  came  the  freedom  of  the 
woods, 

Lifts  each  fair  chrysanthemum  her  dear,  captivating  face, 
Filled  with  sympathy  for  us,  in  our  fluctuating  moods. 

White   as  bridal  robe  of  beauty,  flushed  with  crimson, 

blushing  deep, 
Flaming  high  with  gold,  which,  torch-like,  flings  a  glory 

on  the  air, — 
Through  all   changes,  seems   this  flower  vestal  purity  to 

keep, 

And  its  breath   hath    less    of   passion    than    of  soft, 
entreating  prayer. 

Most,  I  deem,  like  woman's  courage,  strongest  when  the 

skies  are  drear, 

Is  this  fearless  loveliness,  lighting  bravely  all  the  way, 
Through  the  autumn  weeks,  till  winter  with  its   storms 

shall  close  the  year, 

And  the  fury  of  the  tempest  whirl  athwart  the  darken- 
ing day. 


BITTER-SWEET. 

T17HENCE  that  fragrant  name  of  thine, 

Spicy  as  the  beaded  wine  ? 
In  what  cup  of  fairy  mould, 
First  were  poured  thy  berries  cold, 
And  what  dainty  revellers  meet 
Round  thy  clusters,  Bitter-sweet? 

Haply  in  the  deep  greenwood 
Hebe  near  thee  sponsor  stood ; 
Venus  cast  thy  perfect  shape 
Tinier  than  the  mountain  grape  ; 
And  such  gods  as  Homer  knew 
Gathered  thee  in  dusk  and  dew. 

Lovety  birth  of  frost  and  fire, 
Satisfying  all  desire ; 
Though  the  aster  blooms  no  more, 
And  the  gentian's  smile  is  o'er, 
They  who  rest  and  they  who  toil 
Count  thee  Nature's  richest  spoil. 


Sitter-Sweet. 

Life  itself  is  bitter-sweet, 
In  its  rhythm  most  complete. 
Through  its  loftiest  choral  strain 
Steals  the  undertone  of  pain, 
And  its  sober  autumn  days 
Often  wake  profoundest  praise. 

Therefore,  when  the  loosened  leaf, 
Robed  in  glory  bright  and  brief, 
Silent  through  the  crystal  air 
Floats  ethereal  as  a  prayer, 
It  is  joy  thy  blush  to  meet, 
Jewel-gleaming  Bitter-sweet. 

For  so  plain  we  hear  thee  say, 
"  Love  is  in  the  world  to  stay, 
Though  the  seasons  wax  and  wane, 
Though  the  winter  come  again," 
That  our  faltering  hearts  grow  strong, 
And  our  lips  uplift  a  song. 


A  SUMMER  MORNING. 

C")NE  set  apart  in  days  of  old 

From  crowded  haunts  and  mortal  eyes, 
Saw  gates,  like  leaves  of  pearl  unfold, 
And  heard  the  harps  of  Paradise, 
While  o'er  his  thoughts,  a  hallowed  spell, 
The  present  sense  of  heaven,  fell. 

So,  shimmering  through  the  mountain  mist 

I,  too,  a  miracle  behold  : 
A  temple,  brave  with  amethyst, 

And  opal  tints  and  gleams  of  gold, 
In  mystic  beauty  deigns  to  rear 
Its  pomps  of  pillared  splendor  here. 

Fair  house  of  God,  not  made  with  hands, 
Thy  walls  are  laid  beneath  the  sea ; 

Thy  glittering  arches  span  the  lands 
In  light  aerial  symmetry  ; 

Thy  dome  is  crowned  with  living  fire, 

Thou  long  enchantment  of  desire. 


A  Summer  Morning.  91 

And  far  along  thy  sweeping  nave 
Are  fragrant  censers  swinging  low ; 

And  sweet  from  solemn  architrave 

The  blending  echoes  meet  and  flow  — 

As  bird  and  flower,  awakening,  pour 

Their  rapture  through  thine  open  door. 

O  silver  dawn  !     O  listening  hush  i 

O  kindling  glory  of  the  morn  ! 
What  beauty  in  the  roseate  flush, 

What  sheen  of  gems  on  leaf  and  thorn  ! 
How  near  to  God  the  spirit  waits 
Who  worships  in  the  morning  gates. 


PASTURE   LANDS. 


"  /^REEN  pastures,"  said  the  Psalmist, 

In  that  old  strain  of  praise 
Which  pours  its  matchless  music  o'er 

Our  rough  and  rugged  ways ; 
Which  rests  us  with  its  tenderness, 

As  when  a  mother  sings, 
And  to  our  weary  moods  of  pain 

Divinest  healing  brings. 

"  Green  pastures."     Pent  in  city  walls 

I  think  of  them  to-day,  — 
How  cool  and  sunny  sweet  they  stretch 

O'er  uplands  far  away  ; 
How  velvet-soft  their  hill-slopes  lie, 

How  long  their  shadows  sweep, 
How  tranquil  are  their  silences, 

Their  evening  peace  how  deep  ! 


Pasture  Lands.  93 

O  quiet  miles  on  miles  of  green  ! 

O  fields  with  clover  fair  ! 
Where  flocks  repose,  where  happy  birds 

Salute  the  morning  air ; 
Where  never  alien  step  intrudes, 

Nor  harsh  invader  comes, 
Nor  peals  the  great  world's  bugle  blast, 

Nor  beats  its  martial  drums. 

Had  I  the  wings  of  e.agle  strong, 

Or  of  the  gentle  dove, 
How  would  I  seek  your  solitudes, 

Your  calm,  embracing  love  ! 
And  yet,  where  hearts  in  fellowship 

Around  me  closely  stand, 
Where  loyal  hands  are  clasping  mine, 

Must  be  my  pasture-land. 

And  He  who  clothes  the  meadows, 

And  weaves  the  radiant  light 
Of  flower  and  vine,  on  mountain  sides, 

And  through  the  valleys  bright, 
Shall  give  to  me  the  pasture  green, 

The  waters  still  and  sweet, 
Oft  as  I  take  my  need,  my  thirst, 

And  bend  me  at  His  feet. 


BEFORE  THE   FROST. 


'"PHERE  's  a  little  pause  of  waiting,  in  the  time  that 

falls  between 
Nature's  waking  and  her  sleeping,  ere  the  white  hath  hid 

the  green, 
Which  of  all  the  glad  year's  gladness  hath  the  most  of 

rare  and  fine, 
Which  of  all  the  sad   year's  sadness  pours   elixir   most 

divine. 

For  so  blend  our  lights  and  shadows,  like  the  crossing 

warp  and  woof, 
That  our  bliss  is  edged  with  sorrow,  and  full  oft  our  joy  is 

proof 
Only  of  some  pain  that,  passing,  leaves  our  spirit's  life 

possessed 
Of  a  sense  of  tranquil  pleasure  or  the  dear  delight  of  rest. 


Before  the  Frost.  95 

In  these  days  of  quiet  beauty,  when  the  silver  haze  of 

morn 

Like  a  mystic  veil  uplifteth  and  afar  to  space  is  borne, 
Come  the  hours  like  radiant  angels  bringing  gifts  from 

One  we  love, 
And   the   rapture   of    thanksgiving    rises   to   His   throne 

above. 


Yet  the  tears  o'erbrim  the  eyelids  as  we  look  from  height 

to  height, 
Flooded  with  a  wondrous  splendor,  bathed  in  waves  of 

liquid  light ; 
As  we  gaze  o'er  field  and  forest,  where,  unrolling  rich  and 

wide, 
Glory  still  excelleth  glory  in  a  vast  triumphal  tide. 


Not  the  sweet,  shy  charm  of  April,  not  the  roseate 
grace  of  June, 

Nor  the  lilied  later  summer  sleeping  in  the  August  noon, 

Have  such  power  to  stir  our  longings,  have  such  memo- 
ries dear  and  deep, 

As  this  time  when  earth  is  hushing,  like  a  child  before 
its  sleep. 


96  Before  the  Frost. 

Voices  once  that  made  our  music,  fill  no  more  the  lonely 
days; 

Faces  once  that  made  our  sunshine,  beam  no  longer  on 
our  ways ; 

Hands  which  clasped  our  own  so  warmly,  folded  lie  be- 
neath the  sod, 

And  above  their  strange  quiescence,  blooms  and  fades  the 
golden  rod. 

Still  our  souls  go  forth  undaunted,  victors  amid  loss  and 

strife  ; 

And  we  gather  consolation,  in  whatever  stress  of  life, 
From  the  thought  that  over  yonder,  where  the  immortal 

anthems  swell, 
There  is  utmost  peace  and  safety,  and  with  Christ  the 

ransomed  dwell. 

In  the  morning-glories'  twining,  with  their  fragile  trumpet 

shapes, 
In  the  ecstatic  thrill  of  color  flushing  o'er  the  ripened 

grapes, 
Through  the  grand  year's  coronation,  beats   the   loving 

heart  of  God ; 
Let  us  raise  our  psalms  majestic,  let  us  tell  His  praise 

abroad  ! 


IN   COMMON   DAYS. 

T  N  days  supreme,  of  fond  delight, 

When  happy  thoughts  within  us  dwell, 
Like  vestals  robed  in  stainless  white,  — 
Who  time  their  footsteps  by  the  swell 
Of  sweet-voiced  bells  upon  the  air  — 
Then  have  we  least  the  need  for  prayer. 

In  days  obscured  by  veiling  folds 
Of  grief,  or  clouded  o'er  with  dread, 

While  dumb  suspense  relentless  holds 
Its  sword  above  the  shrinking  head,  — 

Then,  even  in  the  soul's  despair, 

Is  not  the  deepest  need  of  prayer. 

Since  to  the  dark  Gethsemane 
The  pitying  angels,  soon  or  late, 

Must  come  with  tenderest  ministry, 
And  each  blithe  day  is  but  the  gate 

To  some  rich  temple,  rising  fair, 

Which  builds  to  heaven  a  golden  stair  — 


98  In  Common  Days. 

God  keep  us  through  the  common  days, 
The  level  stretches,  white  with  dust, 

When  thought  is  tired,  and  hands  upraise 
Their  burdens  feebly,  since  they  must. 

In  days  of  slowly  fretting  care, 

Then  most  we  need  the  strength  of  prayer. 


AN   EVENING  REVERIE. 

OINCE  climbed  the  trembling  light  of  dawn  far  up  the 

Eastern  stairs, 
How  long  it  seems,  how  very  long,  since  low  I  knelt  at 

prayers, 
And  strove  to  cast  on  Christ  the  Lord  the  day  with  all 

its  cares. 

Then  peace  in  silver  waves  came  down,  and  all  my  soul 

was  still; 

The  quiet  of  a  deep  content  my  being  seemed  to  fill, 
As  "  Not  mine  own,"  I  cried,  "  but  Thine  be  done,  Thy 

blessed  will." 

I  thought :  "  Whatever  He  may  send  to-day,  of  joy  or  pain. 
So  Love  decree  it,  let  it  come,  it  cannot  come  in  vain ; 
'Twill  only  be  a  link  the  more  in  Love's  immortal  chain." 


ioo  An  Evening  Jteverie. 

I  thought :  "  This  day  my  words  shall  be  so  spirit-meek 

and  mild, 

My  steps  shall  pattern  after  His,  whom  never  sin  defiled, 
And  I  will  live  in  gentleness,  because  I  am  His  child." 

Alas  !  with  wayside  dust  assoiled,  by  wayside  thickets 
torn, 

With  stain  of  earth  upon  my  robes,  and  weary  and  for- 
lorn, 

The  evening  finds  me  on  the  day  in  such  calm  beauty 
born. 

Remembrance  folds  her  mantle  o'er  a  shamed  and  blush- 
ing face, 

And  Hope  upon  the  tablet  of  my  heart  finds  little  space 
For  tracery  of   golden  words,   or  whispers  sweet  with 
grace. 

How   has  the   evil   motive   marred   the   fairest   seeming 

deed! 
How  far  the  life  has  been  below  the  lofty  -  sounding 

creed  ! 
How  little  has  the  self  been  lost  to  help  a  brother's 

need  ! 


An  Evening  Reverie.  101 

The  thoughtless  word,  the  tone  unkind,  the  shaft  by  pas- 
sion sent, 

The  priceless  hour  —  by  angels  brought  —  in  idle  dream- 
ing spent, 

The  prison  bars  that,  round  the  soul,  the  world  and  sin 
have  pent. 

For  these  the   bitter  tears  must  fall,  as  bending  low  I 

pray: 
"  O  Saviour   of  Thine  erring  ones,  receive  this  broken 

day, 
Nor,  for  my  little  thought  of  Thee,  take  Thou  Thy  thoughts 

away  !  " 


A  WINTER  SUNSET. 


A    WONDERFUL  glory  of  color, 
A  splendor  of  shifting  light  — 
Orange  and  scarlet  and  purple  — 

Flamed  in  the  sky  to-night. 
Over  the  rolling  river, 

And  over  the  busy  town, 
Soft  as  a  benediction 

The  rich  rays  floated  down. 

They  turned  the  sails  of  the  fishers 

Into  opal,  rose,  and  gold ; 
The  tall  and  smoky  chimneys 

Were  like  castle  turrets  bold. 
Nothing  of  plain  or  common, 

But  took  a  halo  strange, 
In  the  light  of  the  lovely  sunset, 

With  its  fairy  spell  of  change. 


A    Winter  Sunset.  103 

The  day  had  been  long  and  gloomy, 

Weary  with  mist  and  rain, 
A  day  for  the  heart  to  brood  on 

Sorrow  and  loss  and  pain  ; 
But  there  came,  with  the  light  of  evening, 

A  wind  that  swept  away 
All  the  shadow  and  darkness 

Out  of  the  winter  day. 

Is  thy  life,  O  pilgrim,  dreary, 

Veiled  from  the  cheery  light? 
Perhaps  for  thee  is  the  promise 

Of  joy  with  the  waning  light. 
Fairer  than  noonday  splendor, 

Richer  than  beams  of  stars, 
The  lustrous  glory  of  sunset 

May  burn  through  golden  bars. 

For  ever  the  sun  is  shining ; 

If  only  thy  soul  can  wait, 
It  will  find  the  light  and  beauty, 
•   Though  they  seem  to  tarry  late. 
The  soundless,  sun-bright  portal 

Will  suddenly  swing  apart, 
And  the  grace  of  the  life  immortal 

Will  guerdon  thy  trusting  heart. 


THE  TROUBLESOME   BABY. 

'T'HE  little  ones  cling  to  the  mother, 
With  kisses  that  softly  fall, 

But  somehow  the  troublesome  baby 
Is  nearest  her  heart  of  all,  — 
111  and  fretful  and  small, 
But  dearest  to  mother  of  all. 

The  neighbors  wonder  and  pity, 
Hearing  its  querulous  cry. 

"  She  is  losing  her  youth  and  beauty," 
Say  friends  as  they  pass  her  by  : 
"  Well  were  the  babe  to  die, 
And  the  mother  have  rest,"  they  sigh. 

But  over  the  wee  white  cradle, 
Her  soft  eyes  full  of  prayer, 

Bendeth  the  weary  mother ; 
And  never  was  face  so  fair, 
Pale,  and  tired  with  care,  — 
But  the  glory  of  love  is  there  1 


The  Troublesome  Baby.  105 

Rosy  and  round  and  dimpled, 

Dewy  with  childish  sleep, 
She  tucks  in  her  other  darlings,  ' 

Whom  angels  watch  and  keep. 

Ah,  if  a  darker  angel 

Anear  this  treasure  creep  ! 

Bless  thee,  beautiful  mother  ! 

Thy  heart  hath  a  place  for  all,  — 
Room  for  the  joys  and  the  sorrows, 

However  fast  they  fall ; 

Room  for  the  baby  small, 

That  may  love  thee  better  than  all. 


THE   FIRST   FIRE   OF  THE  SEASON. 


TUTOW  it  leaps,  in  dance  excited, 

How  it  sleeps,  in  trance  delighted, 
How  it  looms  in  liquid  shining, 
How  it  glooms  in  wan  declining,  — 
While  around  the  hearth  we  gather, 

One  and  all, 

In  the  bleak  and  windy  weather 
Of  the  Fall ! 

Hark  !     Without  the  storm  is  raging, 
Fierce  the  rout  the  day  engaging ; 
Tramp  the  rains  in  steady  column, 
Timed  to  strains  of  music  solemn,  — 
But  within,  the  house  is  cheery ; 

There  belong 

Accents  gentle,  laughter  merry, 
Book  and  song. 


The  .First  Fire  of  the  Season.  107 

Whence  art  thou,  O  rare  magician, 
Weaving  now  in  swift  transition 
Spells  of  peaceful  incantation 
O'er  our  equal  sequestration 

Here  at  home  ?    The  world  behind  us, 

Cares  forgot, 

Closer  while  the  moments  bind  us,  — 
Blest  our  lot. 

Friendly  flame  !     Remote  Chaldean 
Seers  of  name  effaced,  Sabean 
Shepherds  in  the  elder  ages, 
Persian  bards  in  mystic  pages, 
Thee  adored,  for  so  divinely 
Streamed  thy  light ; 
Half  we  follow,  and  enshrine  thee, 
Spirit  bright ! 

For  thy  genial  incandescence 
Owns  no  menial-mingled  essence  ; 
Thou  wert  born  of  happy  seasons, 
Child  of  morn  and  dew.     The  reasons 
Of  our  love  go  back  to  summers 

Long  ago, 

And  our  thoughts,  like  festive  comers, 
Round  thee  flow. 


io8  The  First  Fire  of  the  Season. 

Dear  the  friends  each  heart  remembers, 
As  in  cheer  we  stir  the  embers, 
Bid  the  ash  renew  its  beauty, 
Sparkle,  flash,  and  glow,  till  duty, 
Through  the  comfort  of  the  hour, 

Wooes  our  soul, 
And  we  deem  its  sternest  dower 
Life's  best  goal. 

So  we  dream  not,  visionary, 
When  we  think  thee  missionary, 
Household  fire,  once  more  relighted, 
Blazing  higher,  —  the  while  united 
Round  the  hearth  of  home  we  gather, 

One  and  all, 

In  the  bleak  and  windy  weather 
Of  the  Fall. 


WHITER  THAN    SNOW. 

HITER  than  snow !  The  soft  flakes,  shod  with  peace, 

Dropped  silently  adown  the  stirless  air, 
Till  folded  under  their  thick-sheltering  fleece 

The  brown  earth  lay,  that  late  was  chill  and  bare. 
Can  aught  be  whiter  than  this  whiteness  pure  ? 
And  yet  God's  word  is  true,  His  promise  sure. 

0  Lord,  I  lift  that  vehement  prayer  of  old. 

My  sins  as  scarlet  are  ;  my  life,  to  Thee 
An  open  page,  how  deeply  marred  !     Yet  bold 

I  plead  for  cleansing.     Jesus'  blood  shall  free 
This  soul  of  mine  from  shame,  from  guilt,  from  woe ; 
O  wash  me,  Lord,  yes,  whiter  than  the  snow. 

Then,  let  my  feet  be  swift  to  run  for  Thee, 
My  hands  essay  Thy  lowliest  work  to  do, 

My  heart  be  warm  with  love,  my  gladness  be 
To  hear  Thy  voice  and  know  its  accents  true. 

And  still,  where  Thou  shalt  summon  may  I  go, 

O  Friend  Divine,  thrice  blessed  to  serve  Thee  so. 


re  Whiter  than  Snow. 

And  mid  earth's  Winter  silence,  drifted  deep, 

When  fond  hopes  fail,  when  blossoms  sweet  decay, 

When  dear  ones  leave  us,  and  alone  we  keep 
Grief's  mournful  vigils  in  the  darkening  day, 

Still  let  our  souls  be  patient.     Summer's  glow 

Abides  where  Christ's  redeemed  ones  surely  go. 


AN   AUTUMN   DAY. 


T   IKE  a  jewel,  golden-rimmed ; 

Like  a  chalice,  nectar-brimmed ; 
Like  a  strain  of  music  low, 
Lost  in  some  sweet  long  ago ; 
Like  a  fairy  story  old, 
By  the  lips  of  children  told ; 
Like  a  rune  of  ancient  bard ; 
Like  a  missal  glory- starred,  — 
Comes  upon  her  winsome  way 
This  enchanting  Autumn  day. 

O'er  the  hills  the  sunlight  sleeps ; 
Through  the  vales  the  shadow  creeps ; 
On  the  river's  stately  tides, 
Rich  the  silent  splendor  glides ; 
Where  the  bowery  orchards  be, 
Perfumed  breezes  wander  free ; 


An  Autumn  Day. 

Where  the  purple  clusters  shine 
Through  the  network  of  the  vine, 
Fragrant  odors  fill  the  air ; 
Beauty  shineth  everywhere, 
While  upon  her  joyous  way 
Comes  the  lovely  Autumn  day. 

By  the  road's  neglected  banks 
Rise  the  sumach's  serried  ranks ; 
Ragged  hedge  of  thorn  and  brier 
Sudden  flames  with  living  fire  ; 
From  the  hard  unlovely  sod 
Springs  the  glancing  golden-rod  ;   * 
Light  the  level  sunbeams  sift 
Through  the  violet  aster- drift  ; 
All  her  spears  in  proud  array, 
Comes  the  bannered  Autumn  day. 

Lifts  the  forest's  lofty  line, 
Sceptred  oak  and  solemn  pine ; 
Shifting  rainbow  tints  illume 
All  the  depths  of  fronded  gloom  ; 
Through  the  vista'd  aisles  unroll 
Sweeping  robe  and  trailing  stole,  — 
Where  superbly  on  her  way 
Comes  the  royal  Autumn  day. 


An  Autumn  Day.  113 

Heart  of  mine,  be  glad  and  gay ; 
Wear  thy  festival  array ; 
Sing  thy  song  for  gathered  fruit ; 
Why  shouldst  thou  alone  be  mute, 
When  the  winds,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Ring  in  chords  of  jubilee? 
After  waiting,  after  prayer, 
After  pain  and  toil  and  care, 
After  expectation  long  — 
Lo  !  the  bright  fulfilments  throng. 
Gleam  the  apples  through  the  leaves ; 
Thickly  stand  the  golden  sheaves ; 
Earth  is  all  in  splendor  drest ; 
Queenly  fair,  she  sits  at  rest, 
While  the  deep  delicious  day 
Dreams  its  happy  life  away. 


OUR     LOST. 


T^HEY  never  quite  leave  us,  our  friends  who  have  passed 
Through   the   shadows   of    death   to   the   sunlight 

above ; 

A  thousand  sweet  memories  are  holding  them  fast 
To  the  places  they  blest  with  their  presence  and  love. 

The  work  which  they  left  and  the  books  which  they  read 
Speak  mutely,  though  still  with  an  eloquence  rare ; 

And  the  songs  that  they  sung,  the  dear  words  that  they 

said, 
Yet  linger  and  sigh  on  the  desolate  air. 

And  oft  when  alone,  and  as  oft  in  the  throng, 
Or  when  evil  allures  us  or  sin  draweth  nigh, 

A  whisper  comes  gently,  "  Nay,  do  not  th«^  wrong," 
And  we  feel  that  our  weakness  is  pitied  on  high. 


Our  Lost.  115 

We  toil  at  our  tasks  in  the  burden  and  heat 

Of  life's  passionate  noon ;  they  are  folded  in  peace. 

It  is  well  •  we  rejoice  that  their  heaven  is  sweet, 
And  one  day  for  us  all  the  bitter  will  cease. 

We,  too,  shall  go  home  o'er  the  river  of  rest, 

As  the  strong  and  the  lovely  before  us  have  gone  ; 

Our  sun  will  go  down  in  the  beautiful  west, 
To  rise  in  the  glory  that  circles  the  throne. 

Until  then  we  are  bound  by  our  love  and  our  faith 
To  the  saints  who  are  walking  in  Paradise  fair ; 

They  have  passed  beyond  sight  at  the  touching  of  death, 
But  they  live,  like  ourselves,  in  God's  infinite  care. 


GROWING  OLD. 

TS  it  parting  with  the  roundness 

Of  the  smoothly  moulded  cheek? 
Is  it  losing  from  the  dimples 

Half  the  flashing  joy  they  speak? 
Is  it  fading  of  the  lustre 

From  the  wavy  golden  hair  ? 
Is  it  finding  on  the  forehead 

Graven  lines  of  thought  and  care  ? 

Is  it  dropping  —  as  the  rose-leaves 

Drop  their  sweetness,  over-blown  — 
Household  names  that  once  were  dearer, 

More  familiar  than  our  own  ? 
Is  it  meeting  on  the  pathway 

Faces  strange  and  glances  cold, 
While  the  soul  with  moan  and  shiver 

Whispers  sadly,  "  Growing  old  "  ? 


Growing  Old,  117 

Is  it  frowning  at  the  folly 

Of  the  ardent  hopes  of  youth  ? 
Is  it  cynic  melancholy, 

At  the  rarity  of  truth  ? 
Is  it  disbelief  in  loving, 

Selfish  hate,  or  miser's  greed  ? 
Then  such  blight  of  what  was  noble 

Is  a  "growing  old  "  indeed. 

But  the  silver  thread  that  shineth 

Whitely  in  the  thinning  tress, 
And  the  pallor  where  the  bloom  was, 

Need  not  tell  of  bitterness ; 
And  the  brow's  more  earnest  writing, 

Where  it  once  was  marble  fair, 
May  be  but  the  spirit's  tracing 

Of  the  peace  of  answered  prayer. 

If  the  smile  have  gone  in  deeper, 

And  the  tear  more  quickly  start, 
Both  together  meet  in  music 

Low  and  tender  in  the  heart ; 
And  in  others'  joy  and  gladness 

When  the  life  can  find  its  own, 
Surely  angels  lean  to  listen 

To  the  sweetness  of  the  tone. 


n8  Growing  Old. 

Nothing  lost  of  all  we  planted 

In  the  time  of  budding  leaves, 
Only  some  things  bound  in  bundles 

And  set  by  —  our  precious  sheaves 
Only  treasure  kept  in  safety 

Out  of  reach,  away  from  rust, 
Till  the  future  shall  restore  it, 

Richer  for  our  present  trust. 

On  the  gradual  sloping  pathway, 

As  the  passing  years  decline, 
Gleams  a  golden  love-light,  falling 

Far  from  upper  heights  divine  ; 
And  the  shadows  from  that  brightness 

Wrap  them  softly  in  their  fold, 
Who  unto  celestial  whiteness 

Walk,  by  way  of  "  growing  old." 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 

A  T  Christmas-tide  the  fields  are  bare, 

A  shiver  of  frost  is  in  the  air ; 
The  wind  blows  keen  across  the  wold, 
Gone  is  the  autumn's  glimmer  of  gold  ; 
But  lo  !  a  red  rose  opens  wide 
In  the  glowing  light  of  the  ingleside  — 
A  rose  whose  fragrance,  sweet  and  far, 
Is  shed  at  the  beaming  of  Bethlehem's  star ; 
And  once  again  the  angels  sing 
That  Love  is  heaven  and  Christ  is  King. 

At  Christmas-tide  the  children  go 

With  dancing  footsteps  over  the  snow ; 

At  Christmas-tide  the  world  is  bright 

With  the  sudden  splendor  that  thrilled  the  night, 

And  made  the  dawn  a  shining  way, 

When  first  earth  wakened  to  Christmas-day. 


At  Christmas-Tide. 

Ah  !  hide  your  faces,  churls  and  rude, 
For  none  have  a  heart  to  share  your  mood ; 
At  Christmas-tide  the  open  hand 
Scatters  its  bounty  o'er  sea  and  land. 
And  none  are  left  to  grieve  alone, 
For  Love  is  heaven  and  claims  its  own. 

At  Christmas-tide  there  are  chiming  bells  : 
Oh,  silvery  clear  their  cadence  swells. 
They  smite  the  cold  of  Arctic  plains, 
They  ripple  through  falling  of  tropic  rains  ; 
In  palaces  men  pause  to  hear 
The  wonderful  message  of  peace  and  cheer ; 
In  lowly  huts  the  peasants  pray 
With  blessing  to  God  for  the  happy  day. 
On  every  breeze  the  joy  is  borne 
Around  the  globe  on  the  Christmas  morn ; 
And  loud  once  more  the  angels  sing 
That  Love  is  heaven  and  Christ  is  King. 

At  Christmas-tide  like  incense-fires 
Arise  the  chants  of  stately  choirs, 
And  priestly  voices  lead  the  prayers 
Where  God's  dear  children  cast  their  cares 


At  Christmas-Tide.  121 

Low  at  the  feet  of  the  mighty  Lord, 

Whose  grace  is  pledged  in  His  deathless  word. 

And  grateful  spirits  haste  to  lay 

Gifts  at  his  altars  on  Christmas-day ; 

While  high  above  the  seraphs  sing 

That  Love  is  heaven  and  Christ  is  King. 


THE   GATE   OF   PRAYER. 

TN  a  dream  I  seemed  to  stand 

By  the  golden  Gate  of  Prayer, 
And  to  and  fro  from  the  shining  land, 

Went  angels  strong  and  fair. 
I  heard  their  beautiful  feet, 

I  saw  their  wings  sweep  by, 
And  the  silver  sound  of  their  voices  sweet, 
Came  thrilling  from  the  sky. 

And  some  as  they  went  were  glad, 

A  jubilant  victor  train  ; 
And  some  had  faces  stern  and  sad,  — 

The  angels,  these,  of  pain ; 
And  some  came  wearily  back, 

As  if  earthly  sorrow's  pall 
Could  almost  shadow  the  sunlit  track, 

Where  the  angel  footsteps  fall. 


The  Gate  of  Prayer.  123 

And  I  saw  that  all  the  host 

Paused  just  inside  the  door, 
Where  the  glory  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

Lies  soft  for  evermore. 
And  there  was  a  Face  I  knew, 

A  Face  so  sad,  so  sweet ; 
And  ever  the  prayers  came  floating  through 

The  gate,  its  look  to  meet. 

Sad  was  the  Face  of  Christ 

By  the  golden  Gate  of  Prayer, 
Sad  for  the  souls  whose  weary  tryst 

Made  mournful  murmur  there. 
Yet  its  light  was  clear  and  still, 

And  its  smile  to  my  heart  was  balm, 
As  over  the  world,  with  its  seething  ill, 

He  looked  in  heavenly  calm. 

And  low  to  the  angel  throng : 

"  To  the  happy  ones,"  He  said, 
"  Go  forth  with  ease  and  strength  and  song ;  " 

(Gayly  their  errands  sped  ;) 
"  But  these  who  seek  my  face 

With  feet  that  have  missed  the  way, 
Myself  will  bring  to  a  quiet  place, 

In  the  dark  and  cloudy  day." 


124  The  Gate  of  Prayer. 

Oh,  not  in  a  dream  I  kneel 

To-day,  by  the  Gate  of  Prayer, 
Since  over  my  yearning  spirit  falls 

The  quiet  that  broodeth  there  ; 
And  not  in  a  dream  I  ask : 

"  Dear  Lord,  whatever  it  be 
Of  sorrow  or  pain  or  daily  task 

I  bear,  come  Thou  to  me." 


BESIDE  THE  BARS. 

/GRANDMOTHER'S  knitting  has  lost  its  charm ; 

Unheeded  it  lies  in  her  ample  lap, 
While  the  sunset's  crimson,  soft  and  warm, 
Touches  the  frills  of  her  snowy  cap. 

She  is  gazing  on  two  beside  the  bars, 

Under  the  maple,  —  who  little  care 
For  the  growing  dusk,  or  the  rising  stars, 

Or  the  hint  of  frost  in  the  autumn  air. 

One  is  a  slender  slip  of  a  girl, 

And  one  a  man  in  the  pride  of  youth,  — 
The  maiden  pure  as  the  purest  pearl, 

The  lover  strong  in  his  steadfast  truth. 

"  Sweet,  my  own,  as  a  rose  of  June," 
He  says  full  low,  o'er  the  golden  head. 

It  would  sound  to  her  like  a  dear  old  tune, 
Could  Grandmother  hear  the  soft  words  said. 


126  Beside  the  Bars. 

For  it  seems  but  a  little  while  ago 

Since  under  the  maple,  beside  the  bars, 

She  stood  a  girl,  while  the  sunset's  glow 
Melted  away  'mid  the  evening  stars. 

And  one,  her  lover  so  bright  and  brave, 
Spake  words  as  tender  in  tones  as  low ; 

They  come  to  her  now  from  beyond  the  grave, 
The  words  of  her  darling  so  long  ago. 

"  My  own  one,  sweet  as  the  rose  in  June  !  " 
Her  eyes  are  dim,  and  her  hair  is  white, 

But  her  heart  keeps  time  to  the  old  love-tune 
As  she  watches  her  daughter's  child  to-night. 

A  world  between  them,  perhaps  you  say ; 

Yes  —  one  has  read  the  story  through. 
One  has  her  beautiful  yesterday, 

And  one,  to-morrow  fair  to  view. 

And  little  you  dream  how  fond  a  prayer 
Goes  up  to  God,  through  His  silver  stars, 

From  the  aged  woman  gazing  there, 
For  the  two  who  linger  beside  the  bars. 


SUMMER  FRUITS. 

VI7HEN  scarlet  strawberries  first  were  seen 
A  blush  their  clustering  leaves  between, 
I  thought  that  never  fruit  could  be 
Delicious  as  the  strawberry. 

When  cherries  ripened  firm  and  fine, 
The  blackbirds  shared  their  feast  with  mine, 
And  Summer's  sunshine  seemed  to  glow 
On  satin  skin  and  heart  of  snow. 

When  threaded  close  on  slender  stems 
The  currants  gleamed  like  priceless  gems ; 
When  peaches  held  the  velvet  cheek 
The  south  wind's  coy  caress  to  seek ; 

The  loveliest  which  I  could  not  choose, 
Unwilling  one  fair  gift  to  lose, 
Where  frost  and  fire,  and  old  and  new, 
And  night  and  day,  and  dusk  and  dew, 


128  Summer  Fruits. 

Had  blent  to  tinge  the  living  sap 
And  shape  the  cup  for  Nature's  lap. 
Now  near  and  far  the  apple's  wealth 
Is  servitor  of  joy  and  health, 

And  all  along  the  vineyard's  line 
The  purple  grapes  are  sweet  as  wine, 
For  He  who  pledges  daily  bread, 
With  bounty  hath  our  table  spread. 

And  as  the  singing  winds  go  by, 

The  drifting  odors  make  reply ; 

And  brook  and  forest,  mount  and  flood, 

Chant  "  Praise  the  Lord,  for  He  is  good. 


VALDEMAR  THE  HAPPY. 

pAVORED  in  love,  and  first  in  war, 
Ever  had  been  King  Valdemar. 

Bards  had  written  heroic  lays, 
Minstrels  had  sung  in  Valdemar's  praise. 

Mothers  had  taught  their  babes  his  name, 
Maidens  had  dreamed  it :  this  is  fame. 

Beautiful  eyes  grew  soft  and  meek 

When  Valdemar  opened  his  mouth  to  speak. 

Warriors  grim  obeyed  his  word, 
Nobles  were  proud  to  call  him  Lord. 

"  Favored  in  love  and  famed  in  war, 
Happy  must  be  King  Valdemar  !  " 


130  Valdemar  the  Happy. 

So,  as  he  swept  along  in  state, 
Muttered  the  crone  at  the  palace  gate,  — 

Laughing,  to  clasp  in  her  withered  palms 
The  merry  monarch's  golden  alms. 

Home  at  evening,  for  rest  is  sweet, 
Tottered  the  beggar's  weary  feet. 

Home  at  evening  from  chase  and  ring, 
Buoyant  and  brave,  came  Court  and  King. 

Flickered  the  lamp  in  the  cottage  room, 
Flickered  the  lamp  in  the  castle's  gloom. 

One  went  forth  at  the  break  of  day, 
Asking  alms  on  the  king's  highway. 

One  lay  still  at  the  break  of  day  — 
A  king  uncrowned,  a  heap  of  clay. 

For  swiftly,  suddenly,  in  the  night, 
A  wind  of  death  had  put  out  the  light. 


Valdemar  the  Happy.  131 

And  never  again  might  Valdemar, 
Strike  lance  for  love  or  lance  for  war. 

Silent,  as  if  on  holy  ground, 

The  weeping  courtiers  throng  around. 

Tenderly,  as  his  mother  might, 

They  turn  the  face  to  the  morning  light,  — 

Loose  his  garments  at  throat  and  wrist, 
Softly  the  silken  sash  untwist. 

Under  the  linen  soft  and  white, 
What  surprises  their  aching  sight  ? 

Fretting  against  the  pallid  breast, 
Find  they  a  penitent's  sackcloth  vest. 

Seamed  and  furrowed  and  stained  and  scarred, 
Sadly  the  flesh  of  the  king  is  marred. 

Never  had  monk  under  serge  and  rope, 
Never  had  priest  under  alb  and  cope, 


132  Valdemar  the  Happy. 

Hidden  away  with  closer  art 

The  passion  and  pain  of  a  weary  heart, 

Than  had  he  whose  secret  torture  lay 
Openly  shown  in  the  light  of  day. 

At  the  lips  all  pale  and  the  close- shut  eyes, 
Long  they  gazed  in  their  mute  surprise  — 

Eyes  once  lit  with  the  fire  of  youth, 
Lips  that  had  spoken  words  of  truth. 

From  each  to  each  there  floated  a  sigh : 

"  Had  this  man  reason  ?    Then  what  am  I  ?  " 

O  friend,  think  not  that  stately  step, 
That  lifted  brow  or  that  smiling  lip, 

That  sweep  of  velvet  or  fall  of  lace, 
Or  robes  that  cling  with  regal  grace, 

Are  signs  that  tell  of  a  soul  at  rest : 

Peace  seldom  hides  in  a  Valdemar's  breast. 


Valdemar  the  Happy.  133 

She  shrinks  away  from  the  palace  glare, 
To  the  peasant's  hut  and  the  mountain  air, 

And  kisses  the  crone  at  the  palace  gate, 
While  the  poor,  proud  king  is  desolate. 


i-/vA.,r     .^ 


PEACE. 


HPHEY  all  shall  pass  :  the  radiant  days 

Song-threaded,  flashing  quick  with  light, 
And  those  that,  veiled  in  gloomful  haze, 

Creep  on,  slow-pulsing,  to  the  night. 
Upon  its  outward  wave,  the  last 

Will  float  us  to  the  tranquil  sea, 
Where,  all  the  storms  forever  past, 

Shall  peace  in  tidal  fulness  be. 

There  no  harassing  care  shall  fret, 

Nor  ever  vague  foreboding  chill, 
Shall  fall  no  shadow  of  regret ; 

Shall  jar  no  dissonance  of  ill,  — 
Beyond  the  tumult,  fierce  and  rude, 

Of  earthly  loss  and  earthly  gain, 
Beyond  the  soul's  disquietude, 

Beyond  the  body's  mortal  pain. 


Peace.  135 

In  all  our  loneliness  we  wait, 

In  all  our  weariness  we  hope ; 
The  harbor  of  the  Golden  Gate 

Before  our  longing  eyes  shall  ope. 
With  broken  mast  and  shivered  spar, 

We  drift  adown  the  darkling  sea, 
But  shines  before  us  like  a  star, 

O  God,  our  home,  our  peace  in  Thee. 


IN   AN  UPPER   ROOM. 


TylTITHIN  an  upper  chamber, 

At  evening  of  the  day, 
We  gathered  for  an  hour ; 
And  one  said,  "  Let  us  pray." 


We  came  with  stains  of  conflict, 
With  dust  of  earthly  care  ; 

Our  hearts  were  spent  and  weary, 
Till  Jesus  met  us  there. 

We  heard  no  blare  of  trumpets, 

We  saw  no  blaze  of  light, 
As  silently  the  Master 

Came  through  the  summer  night. 

Yet  was  that  upper  chamber 

With  love  divinely  filled  ; 
Our  hearts  grew  strong  with  gladness, 

In  that  dear  presence  thrilled. 


In  an   Upper  Room.  137 

The  air  was  soft  with  blessing ; 

And  as  we  sang  the  hymn, 
Its  notes  were  lifted  higher 

By  listening  seraphim. 

We  told  our  want  and  yearning, 

We  told  our  lonely  pain, 
Ere  from  that  upper  chamber 

We  sought  the  world  again. 

• 
But  sweet  and  close  and  tender, 

In  every  tranquil  breast, 
We  bore  a  thought  of  Jesus  — 

Our  own,  our  peace,  our  rest. 

We  might  have  wished  to  linger 

A  little  longer  there ; 
Rut  life  is  full  of  duty, 

And  work  is  wrought  by  prayer. 

To-day,  through  strife  and  turmoil, 

Our  eyes  shall  look  above, 
Where,  in  an  upper  chamber, 

Abides  the  Lord  we  love. 


MERCHANTMEN. 


T   ONG  ago  I  stood  by  the  sea, 
v  And  sent  my  ships  away  from  me  : 


Some  with  pennons  and  streamers  dight, 
Gayly  fluttering  in  the  light ; 

Some  with  freight  of  price  untold, 
Paid  for  out  of  my  spirit's  gold. 

Over  the  rounding  waves  afar, 

They  sailed  by  sun  and  sailed  by  star,  — 

Over  the  billows,  feather-tipped, 

Till  out  of  my  sight  the  last  one  dipped. 

Then  I  waited  and  watched  and  prayed, 
The  while  my  absent  ships  delayed. 


Merchantmen.  139 

One  by  one,  from  ports  afar, 

They  sailed  by  sun  and  sailed  by  star ; 

Till  over  the  billows,  capped  with  foam, 
One  by  one  my  ships  came  home  : 

Some  with  the  brilliant  colors  lost, 
Some  by  adverse  currents  crossed ; 

Some  with  freight  of  wealth  untold, 
Worth  its  weight,  from  a  mine  of  gold. 

But  ah  !  the  ship  loved  best  of  all 
Never  came  home  to  my  heart  at  all. 

And  often  now,  as  I  sit  by  the  sea, 
Whereon  so  many  bright  hopes  be, 

I  wonder  and  wonder  what  befell 
The  fated  ship  that  I  loved  so  well. 


THE   NIGHT  OUR  DARLING  DIED. 


T  'M  thinking  of  an  evening,  a  weary  time  ago, 

When  the  bitter  winds  of  sorrow  about  our  hearth  did 

blow,  — 
When  a  shadow  settled  darkly  where  sunshine  erst   did 

bide,— 
Of  the  mystery  of  life  and  death,  the  night  our  darling 

died. 


'Twas  a  night  in   drear  November;   the  spirits  of  the 

breeze 

Were  holding  rout  and  revel  amid  the  leafless  trees ; 
They  tapped,   with   shivering    fingers,   at    our    pleasant 

fireside, 
But  we  heeded  not  their  presence  the  night  our  darling 

died. 


The  Night  our  Darling  Died.  141 

She  was  but  a  child,  a  wee  one.     Six  happy  summers  shed 

Their  meed  of  golden  beauty  upon  her  little  head ; 

Six  years  of  bliss  unclouded  in  melody  did  glide, 

Ere  God  sent  down  the  angels  the  night  our  darling  died. 

We  watched  the  fitful  brightness,  the  mournful  look  of  pain, 
And  hope  would  light  in  flashes,  or  sadly  sink  again  ; 
We  saw  the  death-mists  gather  our  star  of  life  to  hide, 
Yet  the  fount  of  tears  was  frozen,  the  night  our  darling 
died. 

She  moaned  a  word  of  sweetness,  a  little  word  of  love, 
And  a  smile  shone  for  a  moment,  reflected  from  above ; 
Then  the  waiting  ones  enclasped  her  in  their  downy 

pinions  wide, 
And  away,  away  they  bore  her,  our  darling  and  our  pride. 

There  was  rustling  of  bright  pinions,  there  were  seraph 
murmurs  sweet, 

And  the  shadowed  room  was  holy  with  the  tread  of  angel- 
feet; 

It  had  been  the  gate  of  heaven  to  a  spirit  purified : 

But  we  knew  not,  and  we  cared  not,  the  night  our  dar- 
ling died. 


142  The  Night  our  Darling  Died. 

We  could  only  touch  the  forehead,  so  ivory-veined  and 

chill; 

We  could  only  part  the  ringlets  in  childish  beauty  still ; 
We  could  only  fold  the  white  hands   on   the   strangely 

silent  breast ; 
We  could  only  see  the  mortal,  —  the  soul  had  gone  to  rest. 

There  are  times  when  two  worlds,  meeting,  clasp  with  a 
golden  band, 

And  the  mourner  standeth  closest  to  the  radiant  Better- 
land : 

And,  though  we  thought  not  of  it,  bright  Heaven  was  at 
our  side 

In  the  hours  of  weary  watching,  that  night  our  darling 
died. 


TRINITY  CHIMES: 


ON   A    SATURDAY    AFTERNOON. 


HTHE  light  of  the  Indian  Summer 
Fell  soft  on  bright  Broadway, 
Where  the  ebb  and  flow  of  commerce 

Throbbed  swift  and  strong  all  day ; 
And  men  with  anxious  thoughts  oppressed 

Passed  on  the  crowded  way. 

In  the  surging  throngs  were  people 
With  weary,  care-dimmed  eyes, 

Who  had  half-forgotten  the  story 
Of  a  heavenly  Paradise,  — 

And,  bent  with  earthly  burdens,  walked 
Unconscious  of  the  skies  : 


144  Trinity  Chimes. 

When  clear  from  the  old  church  steeple 

A  message,  silver-sweet, 
Like  a  chorus  of  angel  music, 

Thrilled  all  the  busy  street ; 
And  "  Peace  on  Earth,"  the  chiming  bells 

Seemed  softly  to  repeat. 

They  chimed  the  tune  of  Martyrs, 
And  the  air  of  wild  Dundee, 

And  quaint  Balerma's  measure, 
And  Zephyr's  harmony ; 

Then  floated  o'er  that  listening  throng 
"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee  ! " 

O  folding  love  of  heaven, 

Calm  patience  of  our  God, 
That  waits  to  soothe  our  sorrows 

And  lift  our  heaviest  load,  — 
And  gives  us  melodies  of  home, 

To  cheer  us  on  the  road. 

Above  the  money-changers, 

Above  the  toil  and  strife 
Of  all  this  fretting  eagerness, 

With  which  the  world  is  rife,  — 
Our  Father  keeps  for  us  in  store, 

An  everlasting  life  ! 


Trinity  Chimes.  145 

Ah  !  music  softly  pealing 

Through  that  sun-sifted  air, 
Your  strains  brought  gifts  of  healing 

To  many  a  heart-ache  there ; 
And  men  a  moment  stopped  to  praise,    . 

Who  had  no  time  for  prayer. 


A     NEW    DAY. 


A  S  if  already  pulsed  in  every  part, 

The  beating  of  the  ardent  sun's  deep  heart, 
The  new  Day  waited  on  the  verge  of  Dawn, 
And  wide  before  her  stretched  a  boundless  sea, 
Fed  from  the  fountains  of  Eternity. 
Far  streamed  her  pennons,  tinged  with  rosy  light, 
Beyond  the  films  of  mist  about  her  drawn. 
Behind  her  hovered  still  reluctant  Night, 
A  builder  loath  from  labor  to  be  gone. 
One  only  star  in  steadfast  silence  kept 
Its  lover-vigil  while  the  great  world  slept ; 
Till  sudden  bird-songs  swept  the  dusk  like  flame, 
And,  launched  on  space,  the  bright  creation  came,  — 
A  Day  from  God  for  freight  of  smiles  and  tears, 
For  childhood's  joy,  for  dreams  and  hopes  and  fears. 


THE  TRAILING   ARBUTUS. 

A   YEAR  ago,  in  the  sweet  spring  weather, 
We  sought  the  trailing  arbutus  together. 

Brushing  the  withered  leaves  aside, 

And  the  long  pine-needles,  brown  and  dried, 

We  found  the  vine,  with  its  glossy  green, 
And  its  clustering  flowers  coy  between. 

Over  the  waxen  petals  white 

Hovered  a  blush  as  they  met  the  light,  — 

Pure  as  the  look  a  maiden  wears 

As  forth  she  comes  from  her  morning  prayers. 

I  gathered  the  lovely  things  for  you, 

With  the  breath  of  the  woods  in  their  drops  of  dew 


148  The  Trailing  Arbutus. 

And  home  we  went  by  the  common  way, 
With  a  halo  around  our  holiday. 

For  we  both  had  lost  and  we  both  had  found 
A  something  sweet  on  the  forest  ground. 

And  if  your  heart  was  exchanged  for  mine, 
As  we  sought  the  blossoms  beneath  the  pine, 

The  pine  was  far  too  high  to  hear 
The  words  I  whispered  in  your  ear. 

But  the  shy  arbutus  knew  of  the  Yes, 
That  you  let  me  seal  with  love's  first  kiss  ; 

And  so  this  year,  in  the  fair  spring  weather, 
We  will  hunt  for  spring's  sweet  blooms  together. 


ICE-CROWNED. 

/"**  LANCING  in  armor  of  crystal, 

Splendid  in  serried  array, 
Blazing  with  marvellous  beauty, 

Glittered  the  branches  to-day,  — 
Sheathed  by  invisible  ringers, 

Sparkling  with  opaline  spray. 

Bright,  when  the  blossoms  were  weaving 
Spells  for  the  wantoning  bees  ; 

Rare,  when  the  loves  of  the  robins 
Quivered  in  song  on  the  breeze  ; 

Never  before  such  enchantment 
Wildered  you,  wonderful  trees. 

What  though  the  glory  shall  vanish 
Swift  as  the  thought  of  a  dream  ! 

Once  to  have  worn  it  is  rapture  ; 
Days  that  are  coming  shall  seem 

Rich,  for  the  memory  of  this  one  — 
Golden,  triumphant,  supreme  ! 


Ice- Crowned. 

Over  your  boughs  interlacing, 

Clear  to  the  tiniest  stem, 
Wavered  the  wand  of  the  ice-king, 

Changing  each  drop  to  a  gem,  — 
Amethyst,  topaz,  and  ruby, 

Fit  for  his  own  diadem. 

Crowned  !  yet  all  night  were  ye  moaning ; 

Wet  with  the  rain,  and  forlorn,  — 
Tossed  in  the  whirl  of  the  tempest, 

Weary  and  faint  for  the  morn  ; 
Touched  by  the  rhythm  of  sunlight 

Into  what  peace  are  ye  borne  ! 


LILIES. 


^HE  lilies,  ah,  the  lilies  ! 

They  stand  superb  in  light, 
In  field  and  bank  and  garden  fair, 

A  wonder  to  the  sight ; 
So  rich  their  royal  scarlet  is, 

So  pure  their  stainless  white  ! 

Consider,  then,  the  lilies, 
O  heart  of  mine,  to-day  : 

They  neither  toil  nor  spin,  to  win 
Their  beautiful  array ; 

I  would  that  thou  couldst  live  a  life 
So  fearless-sweet  as  they. 


152  Lilies. 

They  gather  when  the  summer 

Her  silver  bugle  thrills ; 
When  troop,  to  meet  her  shining  feet, 

The  bright,  uncounted  rills  ; 
And  when  the  purple  glories  lie 

All  softly  o'er  the  hills. 

Each  in  her  place  appointed, 

The  lily  dwells  serene  ; 
She  cares  not  though  the  thistle  blow 

Anear  her  leaf  of  green  ; 
Her  neighbors  cannot  vex  her  soul, 

For  she  was  born  a  queen. 

She  fills  the  air  with  fragrance, 
She  crowns  the  day  with  bloom ; 

From  dewy  morn  to  darkling  eve, 
Our  shadows  to  illume, 

She  bears  a  torch,  divinely  fed, 
And  smiles  away  our  gloom. 

Fair  lilies,  gentle  teachers, 

Evangelists  of  love, 
The  word  that  bids  me  heed  your  voice 

Is  spoken  from  above ; 
Ye  are  the  gracious  gift  of  Him 

In  whom  our  spirits  move. 


Lilies.  153 


We  too  would  wear  unspotted 
The  garments  of  the  King, 

Would  have  the  royal  perfume 
About  our  paths  to  cling, 

And  unto  all  beholders 
A  lilied  beauty  bring. 


THE   OLD   CHURCH. 


TT  lifteth  its  gray  old  spire  from  the  heart  of  the  busy 

town. 
Pointing  the  thoughts  of  the  people  from  the  things  that 

bind  men  down  — 

Up  from  toil  and  temptation,  and  struggle  for  daily  bread, 
To  the  blessed   Father  in  heaven,  to  whom  our  prayers 
are  said,  — 

Who  knoweth  what  we  have  need  of  before  it  passeth 

our  lips, 
Who  pitieth  and  forgiveth  our  frailty  and  our  slips  1 

A  century  and  a  quarter  dream-like  has  flitted  away 
Since  they  laid  the  stone  in  the  corner,  one  sunny  summer 
day. 


The  Old  Church.  155 

Grave  men  and  stately  matrons  and  rosy  children  stood, 
While  the  minister  sought  a  blessing  for  the  church  they 
built  in  the  wood  — 

That  thither,  for  peace  and  comfort,  might  throng  from 

many  lands 
Those  who  should  after  worship  in  the  house  not  made 

with  hands. 

As  it  rose  in  its  fair  proportions,  higher  from  day  to  day, 
In  the  shade  of  the  forest  round  it.  the  children  came  to 
play! 

To-day  the  birds  are  singing  from  their  nests  in  the  dusky 

eaves ; 
Then    shook    their    matins    and   vespers   out    from    the 

rustling  leaves. 

Vanished  the  quiet  forest !     In  its  place  the  restless  town, 
With  its  hive-like  hum  and  bustle,  its  houses  smoky  and 
brown  ! 

The  church  in  its  green  enclosure    has   only  room    for 

graves, 
And  over  the  mossy  tombstones  the  graceful  willow  waves  ! 


156  The  Old  Church. 

Here  sleep  the  men  and  women  of  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Folded  in  silent  slumber,  neath  the  sunlight  and  the  snow. 

Out  from  the  grand  old  spire  still  tolls  the  bell  for  the 

dead; 
Still  merrily  peals  its  music  for  the  happy  hearts  of  the  wed. 

From  the  ancient  oaken  pulpit  the  message  of  God  is 

given, 
And  from  Sabbath  to  Sabbath  are  sinners  pointed  to  hope 

and  heaven. 

The  mourner  findeth  comfort,  the  weary  findeth  calm  ; 
And  the  sorely  wounded  spirit  is  soothed  with  Gilead's 
balm. 

Here  the  stranger's  eye  may  brighten  as  he  sees  the  greet- 
ing word  : 

"  Ever  the  stranger  is  welcome  in  the  dwelling  of  the 
Lord  ! " 

And  the  rich  and  poor  together  to  mingle  worship  come 
As  the  children  of  One  Father  —  all  bound  for  one  sweet 
home. 


The  Old  Church.  157 

Long  may  the  dear  old  spire,  from  the  heart  of  the  busy 

town, 
Lift  the  thought  of  the  people    from   all   that   binds   it 

down, — 

From  wealth  they  must  leave  behind  them,  when  low  they 

lie  in  the  mold. 
To  the  city  whose  walls  are  jasper,  whose  streets  are  paved 

with  gold ; 

Where  we  hope  at  last  to  gather,  lifting  our  songs  of  praise, 
Where  never  a  shade  shall  darken  the  sunlight  of  our 
days; 

And  no  voices  with  tears  along  them  shall  tremble  in  the 

chord 
Of  the  hallelujahs  rising  in  that  temple  of  the  Lord. 


SABBATH   DAY. 

A    LITTLE  aside  from  the  sweep  and  whirl, 
The  shifting  splendor  of  swift  Broadway, 
Is  a  place  where  sounds  but  gently  purl, 

And  a  spell  of  quiet  invests  the  day. 
There  marbles  are  gleaming  in  beauty  wrought, 

And  rosy  faces  of  children  glow, 
And  the  painter's  vision  hath  shrined  the  thought 
Of  tropical  sunlight  or  polar  snow. 

There,  late  on  a  summer's  afternoon, 

Till  the  shadowing  twilight  softly  fell, 
I  lingered,  reluctant  to  leave  too  soon 

A  simple  picture  which  pleased  me  well. 
Steady  and  cheerful,  strong  and  sweet, 

Was  the  womanly  face  that  drew  my  gaze, 
With  a  look  which  smiled  my  own  to  meet, 

A  wonderful  blending  of  prayer  and  praise. 


.  Sabbath  Day.  159 

T  was  a  dame  of  the  Highlands,  sturdy  still, 

Though  youth  had  left  her  many  a  day, 
And  used  to  taking,  with  resolute  will, 

Her  path  to  church  in  the  good  old  way. 
Whether  sunlit  mists  to  the  mountains  clung, 

Or  the  tempest  athwart  them  were  driven  wild, 
She  went  to  the  kirk,  where  the  psalms  were  sung, 

Fearless  and  brave  as  an  eager  child. 

I  thought  how  often  some  trifle  kept 

Our  dainty  women  from  cushioned  pews  : 
Too  late,  perhaps,  in  the  morn  they  've  slept, 

Or  the  hat  is  amiss,  or  tight  the  shoes  ; 
There  's  the  hint  of  rain  in  the  clouded  sky, 

And  the  book  and  the  easy-chair  invite. 
I  thought  as  I  gazed  in  the  steadfast  eye 

Of  the  Highland  mother,  blithe  and  bright  — 

Little  she  cared  for  the  bitter  blast, 

Or  the  swirl  of  the  storm  in  her  lifted  face  ; 
She  would  win  through  its  uttermost  stress  at  last, 

And  endurance  was  hers,  from  a  hardy  race. 
A  narrow  life  in  her  lowly  cot 

She  led,  as  she  cared  for  barn  and  byre ; 
But  narrower  far,  where  God  is  not, 

Are  lives  which  the  loftiest  men  desire. 


160  Sabbath  Day. 

There  's  something  grand  in  the  quiet  way 

Yon  strong  soul  passes,  from  sun  to  sun, 
The  week-day  hours  and  the  Sabbath-day 

Counting  alike  by  duties  done. 
The  breath  of  the  hills  in  that  picture  fair, 

With  the  tangled  heather  bent  and  wet, 
And  the  tranquil  woman,  amid  it  there, 

Are  cordial  and  help  to  my  spirit  yet. 


DINNA   BIDE   AWA'. 


awa, 

The  mither  aft  would  say, 
When,  ere  the  nicht  would  fa', 

Her  bairnies  ran  to  play. 
"  The  shades  will  sune  grow  lang, 

The  lamps  will  lighted  be, 
Sae  leave  the  merry  thrang, 
Come  hame  an'  bide  wi'  me." 

Ah  !  gentle  mither  voice, 

The  warld  hath  muckle  strife ; 
Thy  darlings  hae  nae  choice, 

They  maun  hae  griefs  in  life ; 
But  aye  when  mornin'  wakes, 

An'  aye  when  twilights  fa', 
Thy  word  the  silence  breaks, 

Wi'  "  Dinna  bide  awa'." 


1 62  Dinna  Bide  Awa\ 

Frae  that  sweet  hame  aboon, 

The  clouds  and  shadows  gray, 
The  lamps  are  glistening  on 

The  rough  and  stony  way. 
Wha  heeds  that  days  are  lang, 

Or  cares  for  evil  fate, 
Wha  yet  shall  hear  the  sang 

O'  welcome  at  the  gate  ? 

The  golden  gate  that  stands 

Forever  open  wide, 
Where  in  the  best  o'  lands, 

We  yet  at  hame  shall  bide,  — 
How  tender  on  the  ear, 

Its  greetin'  words  will  fa' ; 
The  Father's  house  is  here, 

An'  dinna  bide  awa'. 


THE   ARGIVE   MOTHER. 


/^\N  the  terse  heroic  pages 

Of  the  stately  elder  time, 
Where  the  wisdom  of  the  ages 

Lives  in  melody  sublime, 
I  this  story  long  ago 
Read,  the  sunbeams  dropping  low, 

Through  the  leaves  of  oak  and  maple, 
On  the  brown  and  ancient  book, 

With  the  scent  of  pear  and  apple, 
And  the  lapping  of  the  brook, 

And  the  vestal  lilies  white, 

Each  a  separate  delight. 


164  The  Argive  Mother. 

T  was  the  Argive  mother's  story  : 
She  who,  borne  to  Juno's  feast 

By  her  sons,  her  pride,  her  glory, 
Nobler  none  in  west  or  east, 

Lifted  up  her  voice  in  prayer 

To  the  goddess,  crowned  and  fair. 

"  Give  to  these,"  so  cried  the  mother, 
"  These  my  darlings,  I  implore, 

Some  rich  guerdon,  like  no  other, — 
Make  them  joyful  evermore  : 

Bless  them,  touch  them,  queenly  heart, 

With  thine  own  divinest  art." 

Poured  she  then  the  choice  libation 

Of  the  sacrificial  wine. 
Ah,  the  bursts  of  acclamation  ! 

Ah  !  how  bright  the  sun  did  shine  ! 
Stole  a  whisper  through  the  noon  : 
"  Woman,  granted  is  thy  boon." 

Turning,  beautiful  with  gladness,  — 
All  her  soul's  ecstatic  grace, 

Beaming,  burning,  shaming  sadness, 
Lighting  ardently  her  face,  — 

Forth  she  stepped,  her  matron  brow 

Proud  and  calm  as  Juno's  now. 


The  Argive  Mother.  165 

As  before  a  progress  royal 

Parted  all  the  eager  throng, 
And,  to  Juno's  brightness  loyal, 

Fed  her  heart  with  shout  and  song. 
Still  that  whisper  through  the  noon 
Told  her  "  Granted  is  thy  boon." 

"  Are  ye  sleeping  ?     Waken  !     Waken  ! 

First-born,  twin-born  sons  of  mine  ! 
I  for  you  in  prayer  have  taken 

Pledge  and  vow  at  Juno's  shrine. 
Sorrow,  pain,  or  creeping  fears 
Shall  not  blight  your  manly  years. 

"  Waken  !     Wherefore  sleep  in  daylight  ? 

Ah  !  "  —  a  bitter  wailing  cry ; 
Sudden,  awful,  hath  the  gray  night 

Fallen  from  the  radiant  sky. 
Is  it  thus  hath  Juno  heard  ? 
Keeps  she  so  her  plighted  word  ? 

Dead  —  both  sons  !     Nay,  broken-hearted, 
Hapless  mother,  —  't  was  thy  prayer 

That  no  trial,  poison-darted, 

Evermore  their  souls  should  bear. 

They  are  glad,  with  gladness  great, 

Lifted  far  from  evil  fate. 


1 66  The  Argive  Mother. 

Did  the  mother  feel  it  —  lonely, 
Desolate,  grown  too  early  old  ? 

It  was  Juno's  answer ;  only 

Prayer- unheard  had  been  less  cold. 

'T  was  a  pitiless  gift  in  sooth, 

Emptied  arms  and  blasted  youth. 

Do  we  dream  how  our  petitions 

Granted,  might,  like  swords  of  wrath, 

Sweep  away  the  sweet  conditions 
And  the  mercies  from  our  path,  — 

Leave  us  shorn  of  all  our  pride, 

Fenceless,  trampled,  cast  aside  ? 

Do  we  know?     O  dear  compassion, 
Gracious  ruth,  that  bids  us  wait, 

Though  we  mourn,  in  thankless  fashion, 
That  the  answers  tarry  late, 

And,  o'erwhelmed  by  waves  of  care, 

Have  no  patience  in  our  prayer  ! 


CASTING  THE  FIRST  VOTE. 

TI^ROM  mountain  homes  engirdled 

By  shadowy  gloom  of  pines, 
From  hamlets  whence  the  fisher's  boat 
Sets  sail  o'er  stormful  seas  to  float ; 

From  darkling  depth  of  mines, 
A  host  come  forth  to  cast  their  vote, 

A  host  in  marshalled  lines. 

Clear-eyed,  strong-limbed,  and  sturdy, 
These  honest  sons  of  toil,  — 

They  hold  the  ballot  like  a  prayer, 

Uplifted  through  the  fateful  air, 
That  none  our  land  may  spoil. 

In  their  young  manhood  everywhere 
They  rise  to  guard  the  soil. 


1 68  Casting  the  First  Vote. 

From  cloistered  halls  of  study, 
From  class-room  and  debate, 

With  chastened  look  and  mien  severe, 

Another  army  draweth  near, 
In  patriot  hope  elate,  — 

The  vote  they  drop,  a  pledge  sincere 
To  love  and  serve  the  State. 

Up  from  the  busy  cities, 

From  many  a  thronging  street, 

Come  reinforcements  brave  and  strong ; 

And,  like  the  rhythm  of  a  song, 
I  hear  their  marching  feet,  — 

To  aid  the  weak,  to  right  the  wrong," 
Nor  meanly  to  retreat. 

God  bless  the  pure  endeavor, 
God  guide  the  earnest  thought ; 

God  lead  these  youthful  columns  on, 

Where  only  Freedom's  fights  are  won, 
And  Freedom's  glory  sought,  — 

Where  Truth's  light-bringers  forward  run, 
And  Truth's  brave  deeds  are  wrought. 


CHILDREN'S  SLUMBER  SONG. 


A  LL  the  lambs  in  all  the  folds  are  sleeping  by  their 

mothers ; 
All  the  birds  with  golden  wings  have  tucked  their  heads 

from  sight; 

Far  away  and  near  at  hand,  let  sisters  wee,  and  brothers, 
Kiss,  with  lips  like  rosebuds  cleft,  and   bid  the  world 
good-night. 

All  the  stars  in  fields  above  shine  out  like  jewelled  flowers ; 

Wheresoe'er  the  flowers  be,  they  fold  their  petals  up ; 
While  silently  and  tenderly  steal  on  the  dreaming  hours, 

When  all  the  merry  little  ones  have  sipped  the  Lethe 
cup. 

One  by  one,  with  soundless  feet,  go  forth  the   slumber 

angels, 

And  sift  the  silver  sand  of  rest  o'er  all  the  quiet  land ; 
Till  cheeks  are  flushed  and  voices  hushed,  and,  with  their 

sweet  evangels, 

The  happy  messengers  have  lulled  each  darling  house- 
hold band. 


PILGRIMS. 


'T^HERE  'S  but  the  meagre  crust,  Love, 

There 's  but  the  measured  cup ; 
On  scanty  fare  we  breakfast, 

On  scanty  fare  we  sup. 
Yet  be  not  thou  discouraged, 

Nor  falter  on  the  way, 
Since  Wealth  is  for  a  life,  Love, 

And  Want  is  for  a  day. 

Our  robes  are  hodden  gray,  Love. 

Ah  !  would  that  thine  were  white, 
And  shot  with  gleams  of  silver, 

And  rich  with  golden  light. 
Yet  care  not  thou  for  raiment, 

But  climb,  as  pilgrims  may, 
Since  Ease  is  for  a  life,  Love, 

And  Toil  is  for  a  day. 


Pilgrims.  171 

Our  shelter  oft  is  rude,  Love ; 

We  feel  the  chilling  dew, 
And  shiver  in  the  darkness 

Which  silent  stars  shine  through. 
Yet  shall  we  reach  our  palace, 

And  there  in  gladness  stay, 
Since  Home  is  for  a  life,  Love, 

And  Travel  for  a  day. 

The  heart  may  sometimes  ache,  Love, 

The  eyes  grow  dim  with  tears  ; 
Slow  glide  the  hours  of  sorrow, 

Slow  beats  the  pulse  of  fears. 
Yet  patience  with  the  evil, 

For,  though  the  good  delay, 
Still  Joy  is  for  a  life,  Love, 

And  Pain  is  for  a  day. 


NEW-MOWN   HAY. 

C  WEET,  oh  sweet,  from  the  fields  to-day 
Wafts  the  breath  of  the  new-mown  hay. 

Sewing  away  in  a  happy  dream, 

I  sit  in  the  porch  with  my  long  white  seam. 

The  very  silence  is  like  a  tune, 
Sung  to  the  golden  afternoon. 

While  the  house  is  still,  and  the  meadows  lie 
Fast  asleep  'neath  the  radiant  sky. 

Only  at  intervals,  now  and  then, 
I  hear  the  farmer  call  to  his  men. 

And  the  farmer's  voice  is  dear  to  me 
As  ever  a  mortal  voice  can  be. 


New-Mown  Hay,  173 

You  may  talk  of  the  love  of  youth  and  maid, 
Of  two  in  childhood,  perhaps,  who  played 

Together  by  rill  and  fount  and  tree, 

Till  their  hearts  had  grown  one  heart  to  be ; 

You  may  tell  of  the  loyal  faith  and  life 
Of  the  husband  dear  and  the  gentle  wife ; 

But  the  widowed  mother  leans  closest  on 
The  tender  strength  of  her  only  son. 

Ah  !  what  if  that  farmer  of  mine  one  day 
Should  seek  him  a  bride,  as  well  he  may, 

And  bring  her  home  !     Would  I  be  loath, 
Mother  and  friend,  to  live  for  both? 

For  somehow  the  scent  of  the  new-mown  hay 
Carries  me  back  to  a  far-off  day, 

When  my  silver  hair  was  in  waves  of  brown, 
When  my  bashful  glances  kept  looking  down, 


174  New-Mown  Hay. 

And  swift  to  my  cheek,  in  a  sudden  red, 
Mounted  the  blush,  at  a  soft  word  said. 

Truly  the  days  of  my  youth  were  sweet, 
Ere  the  path  was  rough  to  my  toiling  feet. 

Truly  the  morning  of  life  was  blest, 
And  yet  in  sooth  is  the  evening  best ; 

For  I  Ve  learned  the  lesson  that  joys  must  fly, 
And  the  proudest  hopes,  like  flowers,  die. 

But  God  abides  in  his  heaven,  and  he 
Will  never  forget  to  care  for  me. 

Sweet,  oh  sweet,  is  the  new-mown  hay, 
Wafting  its  breath  from  the  fields  to-day. 

Sweet  is  the  golden  afternoon, 
With  its  silence  rhythmic  as  a  tune, 

And  dear  to  the  soul  is  the  calm  content 
Of  hours  in  grateful  trusting  spent. 


A  GARDEN   OF   SPICES. 

A  LL  odors  sweet  of  spice  and  balm, 

All  breath  of  flower  and  vine, 
To-day  have  found  their  way,  O  Lord, 
To  these  fair  fields  of  thine. 

The  earth  is  radiant  as  a  bride 
In  broidered  garments  dressed  ; 

She  wears  thy  glory  like  a  gem 
Upon  her  happy  breast. 

From  cliff  and  dell  a  song  goes  up 

In  every  wind  that  blows  ; 
We  hear  it  in  the  morning's  joy, 

And  in  the  night's  repose. 

Each  bird  that  pours  his  gladness  out, 

Each  moth  that  rustles  by, 
Hath  part  within  the  strain  of  praise 

Clear  thrilling  to  the  sky. 


i-j6  A  Garden  of  Spices. 

Lord,  pardon  us  for  little  faith, 
Revive  our  drooping  love  ; 

Still  pardon  us,  if  weak  and  faint 
The  hymns  we  lift  above. 

Within  thy  summer  garden  we 
Oft  walk  in  winter's  gloom. 

Oh,  let  the  sun  that  warms  the  sod, 
Our  shadowed  souls  illume. 

Then  shall  we  bring  forth  fruit  for  thee, 
We,  joined  to  heavenly  Vine  ; 

And  still  our  grateful  song  shall  be, 
That  we,  dear  Lord,  are  thine. 


A   HAPPY   NEW  YEAR. 


A  LL  robed  in  ethereal  whiteness 

Glides  in  the  first  morn  of  the  year ; 
And  round  it  a  wonderful  brightness 

Is  floating,  in  token  of  cheer. 
The  glad  and  the  sorrowful-hearted 

Alike  look  for  blessings  to  be, 
Ere  it  pass  to  the  ages  departed, 
And  lost  in  eternity's  sea. 

Already  the  year  which  has  left  us 

Seems  old  as  the  Pyramids  are. 
It  taught  or  enriched  or  bereft  us, 

Yet  now  hath  receded  as  far  — 
As  wholly  hath  lessened  and  faded 

From  vision,  and  melted  from  clasp,  — 
As  the  years  which  Rome's  purple  o'ershaded, 

When  the  world  was  a  toy  in  her  grasp. 


178  A  Happy  New  Year. 

Even  yesterday  past  groweth  hoary, 

Allied  to  traditions  of  eld, 
Partaking  the  gloom  and  the  glory 

The  cycles  uncounted  have  held. 
And  the  new  year,  with  breathless  to-morrows, 

With  raptures  and  yearnings  and  sighs, 
Defeats  and  disasters  and  sorrows, 

Has  Eden's  lost  youth  in  our  eyes. 

Not  new,  like  the  coin  golden  glinting, 

Completed,  that  falls  from  the  mint,  — 
Nor  new,  like  the  broidery  hinting  ' 

Of  splendor  in  ever  fresh  tint,  — 
But  new,  like  the  child  onward  gazing 

At  life  all  before  it  unknown, 
Like  the  prince  when  the  vassals  are  raising 

Their  banners  in  love  round  his  throne. 

No  word  of  its  words  hath  been  spoken, 

No  deed  of  its  deeds  hath  been  done ; 
Nor  the  bread  of  its  benisons  broken, 

Nor  its  battles  in  bravery  won. 
Still  tarry  its  songs  for  the  singers, 

Still  slumber  its  manifold  looms  ; 
Its  bells  are  yet  waiting  the  ringers, 

And  vacant  are  standing  its  tombs. 


A  Happy  New  Year.  179 

Though  it  bear  for  us  wisdom  or  folly, 

In  silence  it  utters  no  sign ; 
Through  our  garlands  of  cedar  and  holly 

There  murmurs  no  message  divine,  — 
Save  this,  that  with  loyal  endeavor, 

And  heart  of  all  enmity  clear, 
Who  welcomes  it  gayly  may  ever 

Look  forth  on  a  Happy  New  Year. 


THANKSGIVING. 

O  WEET  was  the  song  of  the  robin, 
Blithe  was  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
In  the  day  when  the  drift  of  the  blossom 

Was  light  as  the  foam  of  the  sea. 
Then  deeply  was  cloven  the  furrow, 

And  gayly  they  scattered  the  seed, 
Who  trusted  that  rainfall  and  sunshine 

Would  surely  be  given  at  need. 

The  robin  hath  flown  to  the  tropic, 

The  honey-bee  flitteth  no  more  ; 
The  reaper  hath  garnered  the  harvest, 

And  the  fruit  and  the  nuts  are  in  store. 
The  flame  hath  died  out  on  the  maples, 

We  tread  on  the  loose-lying  leaves, 
And  the  corn,  that  was  sturdy  and  stalwart, 

Is  gathered  and  bound  into  sheaves. 


Thanksgiving.  \  8 1 

And  sweeter  than  music  of  springtime, 

And  fuller  of  jubilant  mirth, 
Are  the  strong-tided  chorals  o'erflowing 

From  hearts  where  thanksgiving  has  birth. 
The  songs  of  the  home  and  the  altar, 

The  gladness  of  children  at  play, 
And  the  dear  love  of  households  united 

Are  blending  in  praises  to-day. 

For  pasture-lands  folded  with  beauty, 

For  plenty  that  burdened  the  vale, 
For  the  wealth  of  the  teeming  abundance, 

And  the  promise  too  royal  to  fail, 
We  lift  to  the  Maker  our  anthems, 

But  none  the  less  cheerily  come 
To  thank  him  for  bloom  and  fruition, 

And  the  happiness  crowning  the  home. 

Oh,  the  peace  on  the  brow  of  the  father, 

The  light  in  the  mother's  clear  eyes, 
The  lilt  in  the  voices  of  maidens 

Who  walk  under  dream-curtained  skies, 
The  dance  in  the  feet  of  the  wee  ones, 

The  sparkle  and  shine  in  the  air  ! 
The  year  has  no  time  like  Thanksgiving ; 

A  truce  to  our  fretting  and  care  ! 


1 82  Thanksgiving. 

Sweet  was  the  song  of  the  robin, 

Blithe  was  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
In  the  day  when  the  drift  of  the  blossom 

Was  light  as  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 
But  sweeter  the  silence  of  autumn, 

Dearer  the  tender  refrain, 
When  the  aftermath  waveth  no  longer, 

And  rest  comes  to  mountain  and  plain. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

A    PLAINTIVE  monotone  of  pain 

Sighs  through  our  land,  bereft  to-day, 
A  dissonance  within  the  strain 

So  lately  set  to  measures  gay. 
We  mourn  for  one  too  early  lost 

From  life  and  love  and  labors  high,  — 
Gone,  when  his  country  prized  him  most, 
And  dead  beneath  a  foreign  sky. 

From  Norway's  shadowy  groves  of  pine, 

From  far  Palmyra's  ruins  gray, 
From  cloud-capped  Alp  and  Apennine, 

From  ocean  isle  and  rock-girt  bay, 
Come  notes  to  swell  the  tearful  rune  — 

Which  trees  and  winds  and  surges  blend  • 
For  him,  with  pilgrim  staff  and  shoon, 

Who  made  each  leaf  and  flower  a  friend. 


184  Bayard  Taylor. 

His  was  the  poet's  heaven-born  fire, 

And  his  the  harp  of  troubadour ; 
With  hand  of  strength  he  swept  the  lyre, 

The  master's  touch,  so  swift  and  sure. 
No  stain  obscured  his  well-earned  fame  ; 

His  manhood's  honor  whitely  shone  ; 
And  ever,  as  we  spoke  his  name, 

We  proudly  thought  "  He  is  our  own." 

A  youth,  he  sought  with  eager  hope 

The  busy  city's  crowded  ways. 
What  doors  before  his  feet  should  ope  ! 

What  dreams  grow  real  at  his  gaze  ! 
The  "  Open  Sesame  "  he  tried 

Had  magic  in  it  as  of  old ; 
The  world  is  hard,  the  world  is  wide, 

But  toil  and  truth  possess  its  gold. 

To-day  the  Muses  veil  their  eyes, 

As,  hushed  around  that  laurelled  brow, 
The  brave,  the  beautiful,  the  wise, 

In  stress  of  deep  bereavement  bow ; 
But,  in  Valhalla's  stately  seats, 

The  glad  immortals  haste  to  give 
Such  welcome  as  he  only  meets 

Whose  royal  work  shall  ever  live. 


IN   MY  NEIGHBOR'S  GARDEN. 

T  N  the  bound  of  mine  own  enclosure 

The  flowers  are  fair  to  see  ; 
But  the  rose  in  my  neighbor's  garden 
Is  fairer  than  all  to  me. 

So  white  and  slender  and  stately, 
So  gemmed  with  sparkling  dew, 

This  rose  that  blooms  for  another, 
Is  the  sweetest  ever  that  grew. 

My  heart  to  its  grace  and  beauty 

Goes  forth  as  to  a  shrine  ; 
And  I  sigh  to  its  mystical  fragrance  — 

"  If  it  were  only  mine  !  " 

And  yet  if  not  my  neighbor, 

But  I,  in  fee  and  thrall, 
Held  all  that  marvellous  glory 

On  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 


1 86  In  My  Neighbor's  Garden. 

I  might,  perhaps,  grow  weary 
Of  its  royal  pomp  and  grace, 

And  love  with  my  love  some  daisy 
With  a  shy,  uplifted  face. 

For  since  the  gates  of  Eden 
Were  shut  on  Adam  and  Eve, 

The  flowers  we  have  are  never 
So  sweet  as  the  flowers  we  leave ; 

And  rich  within  my  garden 

Though  many  a  flower  might  be, 

The  rose  that  bloomed  for  another 
Might  seem  the  best  to  me. 


THE   HONEY-BIRD. 


r  I  ""HE  honey-bird,  my  children, 

Lives  far  and  far  away, 
Where  burning  suns  are  beating 
Through  Afric's  tropic  day. 

There,  deep  in  sombre  forests, 

Are  colonies  of  bees, 
Who  hive  their  golden  honey 

In  hearts  of  hollow  trees. 

The  hunters  seek  to  find  it ; 

Their  eyes  are  sharp  and  bright ; 
Their  forms  are  lithe  and  agile  ; 

Their  steps  are  quick  and  light. 


1 88  The  Honey-Bird. 

But  they  might  seek  forever, 

Forever  and  a  day, 
Unless  to  find  the  honey 

A  bird  should  show  the  way,  — 

A  lovely  bird  that  flashes 
With  sudden  arrow-flight, 

And  then,  returning,  utters 
A  cry  of  rare  delight : 

A  cheerful  "  Follow  !  Follow  !  " 
As  if  it  fain  would  say, 

"  The  bees  and  I  are  neighbors, 
And  I  can  tell  the  way." 

That  ringing  "  Follow  !  Follow  !  " 
Allures  the  hunters  on 

Until  their  quest  is  ended, 
The  feast  of  nectar  won. 

And  which  hath  sweeter  promise, 
The  honey-bird  or  bee  ; 

I  tell  you,  little  children, 
It  is  not  plain  to  me. 


The  Honey -Bird.  189 

We  cannot  all  make  honey ; 

But  some  can  find  it  out, 
And  show  its  hive  to  others,  — 

A  gracious  thing,  no  doubt. 

And,  in  this  world  of  thickets, 

And  tangles,  if  you  please, 
One  likes  to  know  the  birds  who 

Are  neighbors  to  the  bees. 


OCTOBER. 


HERE  the  gentle  West  Wind  sigheth, 
And  the  South  Wind  low  replieth ; 
Where  the  faint  blush  —  stealing  through 
Mornings,  bridal-gemmed  with  dew-— 
Hath  a  trembling  glow  and  tender ; 
Where  the  noons  are  rich  with  splendor, 
And  the  sunsets,  soft  and  golden, 
Linger  on  the  mountains  olden,  — 
There,  enchanting,  fair,  serene, 
Dwells  October,  like  a  queen. 

Hers  are  slow,  bewitching  hours, 
Couched  on  fragrant,  blooming  flowers : 
Tasselled  salvia's  scarlet  fringes ; 
Gay  lantana's  radiant  tinges ; 
Eastern  lilies  dark  and  stately  ; 
Purple  heliotrope  that,  lately, 
Spent  its  lavish  sweetness  where 
Roses  "perfumed  all  the  air ; 


October.  191 

Fluted  dahlias  deeply  dyed ; 
Asters  bright  on  every  side, 
Standing  steadfast  floral  wardens 
In  our  separated  gardens, 
Floating,  mist-like,  o'er  the  hedges 
Rural,  which  the  sumach  edges 
With  its  vivid  plumes  of  fire, 
Torch-like  raised  o'er  branch  and  brier. 

Hers  —  our  sunlit,  clear  October  — 
Is  the  oak-leafs  tinting  sober ; 
Dusk  against  the  sky,  and  solemn, 
Lifts  the  strong  old  oak  its  column ; 
Hers,  the  maple's  yellow  flashing, 
And  the  linden's  crimson  dashing  ; 
Hers,  the  elm  with  spreading  glory, 
Hers,  the  ripe  year's  finished  story,  — • 
All  the  wealth  of  freighted  sheaves, 
All  the  songs  of  harvest  eves. 

Trees,  that  whitened  into  blossom ; 
Trees,  that  rocked,  in  ample  bosom, 
Mated  birds  and  humming  bees, 
And  the  soft  vibrating  breeze  ; 


192  October. 

Trees,  that  bore  the  peach  and  apple ; 
Trees,  that  whirlwinds  sought  to  grapple, 
Surely  when  your  tasks  are  over, 
And  the  Autumn,  like  a  lover, 
With  the  kisses  of  his  mouth, 
Sweet  and  wooing  as  the  South, 
Bids  you  glow  in  pomp  supernal, 
Richer  than  your  beauty  vernal,  — 
Surely  in  these  dreamful  days, 
Amber-sealed,  in  silver  haze, 
Ye  are  joyous  and  content, 
'Neath  the  glorious  firmament. 

Like  to  Aaron's  rod  that  budded, 
Till  the  house  of  God  was  flooded 
With  its  almond-fragrance  —  white 
As  the  stars  that  shine  at  night, 
Is  one  flower  that  lingers  fair, 
Filling  the  October  air 
With  its  subtle  sense  of  sweet, 
Till  the  zephyrs  seem  to  beat 
Phantom  music  to  its  time. 
Pure  as  frost-work's  crystal  rime 
Is  the  waxen  tuberose. 
Tired  eyes  that  droop  and  close, 


October. 

Weary  hands  that,  folded,  rest, 
Silent  on  the  quiet  breast, 
O'er  your  sacred  peace  in  death 
Pours  the  rapture  of  its  breath. 
Dipped  in  snow,  the  brush  that  paints 
This  white  flower  of  the  saints  ! 

Shall  we  grieve  that  birds  are  winging 
Far  to  other  lands,  and  singing 
Farewell  notes  upon  their  way  ? 
Shall  we  shadow  this  bright  present, 
Rainbow-tinted,  iridescent, 
With  that  ghostly  future  day,  — 
That  impending  chance  that  may 
Bring  us  pain,  or  gloom,  or  sorrow  ? 
Rather  let  bur  spirits  borrow 
Gladness  from  the  rich  libation, 
Nectar-brimmed  at  coronation 
Of  this  loveliest  month  of  all, 
Diamond-threaded,  of  the  Fall. 

For  the  gentle  West  Wind  sigheth, 
And  the  tender  South  replieth  ; 
And  the  faint  blush,  stealing  through 
Morning's  bridal  veil  of  dew, 


193 


194  October. 

Hath  a  glow  surpassing  other ; 
And  the  noon  is  like  a  mother, 
With  her  fair  hands  full  of  treasure ; 
And  the  sunsets,  in  their  pleasure, 
Bathe  with  glory,  rich  and  golden, 
Valley  slope  and  mountains  olden,  — 
And  enchanting,  rare,  serene, 
Reigns  October,  like  a  queen. 


MOTHER-COMFORT. 


"G^RIEND,  upon  whose  golden  tresses 

Frost  of  time  begins  to  fall, 
Though  your  heart  is  like  the  mellow 

Fruit  beside  the  garden  wall, 
Tell  me  !     Do  you  not  remember 

Sunny  days  of  long  ago, 
When  the  world  was  full  of  beauty, 

Full  of  sparkle  and  of  glow,  — 
When  one  gentle  face  was  fairer 

Far  than  artist  e'er  could  paint, 
Face  that  wears  in  reverent  memory 

Aureole  circlet  of  a  saint  ? 

When  the  little  heart  was  troubled 
Sometimes,  in  those  distant  days, 

Grieving  o'er  a  brittle  plaything, 
Sad,  for  blame  instead  of  praise ; 

When  the  rain  of  tears  was  falling, 
And  the  passion  of  the  hour 


1 9  6  Mother-  Comfort. 

Beat  against  the  wounded  spirit, 
Like  the  storm  against  a  flower,  — 

Then  the  comfort  of  the  mother, 
Soft  as  sunshine,  always  stole 

Through  the  tumult  and  the  turmoil, 
Bringing  peace  unto  the  soul. 

Never  accents  were  so  tender, 

Never  touch  so  light  and  strong, 
Never  voice  in  speech  so  cadenced 

To  the  measure  of  a  song, 
And  beneath  her  dewy  kisses, 

And  her  murmured-cooing  words, 
And  the  magic  of  her  patience, 

Hearts  were  hushed  like  nestling  birds, 
That  the  mother-breast  hath  sheltered, 

And  the  mother-wings  enfold, 
While  the  cloud  is  on  the  midnight, 

And  the  wind  is  in  the  wold. 

Ah  !     Those  days  were  long  and  happy, 
Though  a  trifle  could  obscure 

All  their  brightness  ;  yet  their  troubles 
Just  a  single  kiss  could  cure. 


Mother-Comfort.  197 

Then  the  peril  and  the  danger 

Stayed  outside  the  door  of  home, 
And  we  felt  so  safe  by  mother,  — 

Dared  the  wildest  grief  to  come,  — 
Careless  of  its  utmost  menace, 

When  the  summer's  silver  fleece, 
Trembled  o'er  the  radiant  heaven, 

Blue  and  luminous  with  peace. 

Now  no  word  of  all  the  Scripture 

Thrills  a  sweeter  chord  than  this, 
Stirs  a  richer  retrospection 

Of  the  soul's  experienced  bliss, 
Than  this  promise,  where  the  Spirit 

Strengthens  weak  and  timid  faith 
With  assurance  of  His  comfort : 

"  As  the  mother  comforteth." 

Oh  !  when  mother-lips  no  longer 

Kiss  the  sudden  tears  away, 
When  the  idol  of  our  loving 

Can  with  us  no  longer  stay, 
Needs  the  heart  bereft  to  murmur, 

Bowing  in  the  dust  alone, 
When  the  Christ  will  stoop  to  send  it, 

Such  sweet  blessing  from  the  throne? 


MARTYRS. 


A/TY  child,  whose  soul  is  like  a  flame 

Within  a  crystal  altar-lamp, 
Bends  o'er  an  ancient  book,  its  name 
Obscured  by  mildew  damp  ; 

And,  tracing  down  the  yellow  leaves. 

Where  quaint  and  crooked  letters  stand, 
Her  breath  comes  quick,  her  bosom  heaves, 

Hard  shuts  the  eager  hand. 

"  Mamma,"  —  I  meet  the  lifted  eyes 
That,  softened,  shine  through  gathering  tears  • 

"  God  surely  gives  them  in  the  skies, 
For  all  those  dreadful  years, 

"  Some  sweeter  thing  than  others  have, 

To  comfort  after  so  much  pain ; 
But,  tell  me,  could  we  be  as  brave 

Through  fire  and  rack  and  chain? 


Martyrs,  199 

"  I  'm  glad  there  are  no  martyrs  now." 

Blithe  rings  the  voice  and  positive. 
"  Ah,  Love,"  my  own  heart  answers  low, 

"  The  martyrs  ever  live. 

"  A  royal  line  in  silk  and  lace, 

Or  robed  in  serge  and  hodden  gray, 

With  fearless  step  and  steadfast  face 
They  tread  the  common  way. 

"  Than  dungeon  bolt,  or  folding  blaze, 
Their  cross  unseen  may  heavier  press, 

And  none  suspect,  through  smiling  days, 
Their  utmost  bitterness." 

"  Some  sweet  thing  surely  God  must  keep 

To  comfort,"  said  my  little  one  ; 
"  They  thank  Him  now  if  tender  sleep 

Comes  when  the  day  is  done." 

God's  angel,  Sleep,  with  manifold 

Soft  touches,  smoothing  brows  of  care, 

Dwells  not  beyond  the  gates  of  gold, 
Because  no  night  is  there. 


MERCEDES. 

S~\  LOVELIEST  lily,  severed  from  the  stem 

Of  rich  sweet-breathing  life,  and  frozen  cold  ! 
O  fair  young  Queen,  whom  earthly  diadem 

May  wreathe  no  longer  !    Brilliant  story  told, 
Glad  years  all  numbered,  —  't  was  a  ruthless  dart 
That  in  thy  summer's  morning  pierced  thy  heart. 

So  late  we  listened  to  the  bridal  bells 

Which  sent  their  silver  peals  across  the  main, 

And  dreamed  we  heard  this  voice  amid  their  swells, — 
"  New  hope,  new  peace,  a  new  day's  dawn  for  Spain." 

So  late  Madrid,  along  rejoicing  ways, 

Sent  ringing  forth  its  many-chorded  praise  ! 

Who  is  not  glad  when  manhood's  stately  strength, 
To  woman's  flower-like  bloom  is  proudly  wed  ? 

Alfonso  and  Mercedes  :  through  the  length 
And  breadth  of  lands  remote  the  tidings  sped ; 

And  simple  swains  and  cottage  maids  in  prayer 

Sought  blessings  on  the  twain  so  brave  and  fair. 


Mercedes.  < 

And  now  the  banners  droop,  the  roses  pale, 
The  soft  gray  olives  shiver  in  the  sun, 

The  summer  breezes,  quivering,  moan  and  wail ; 
Sadly  the  golden  rivers,  as  they  run 

Through  shining  valleys  or  by  mountains  hoar, 

Bear  on  the  tale  :  "  The  dear  Queen  lives  no  more." 

She  lives  no  more  !     Yet  shall  her  stately  grace 
Still  like  a  perfume  through  all  time  abide. 

The  beauty  of  her  innocent,  sweet  face 
Be  unforgotten,  and  with  tender  pride 

The  poets  of  her  people  speak  her  name, 

And  wreathe  with  songs  her  clear  and  stainless  fame. 

Lives. she  no  more?     Ah,  victor  over  Death, 
She  met  him  tranquil,  calm  ;  and  no  eclipse 

Dimmed  the  high  courage  of  her  steadfast  faith. 
She  held  the  crucifix  to  whitening  lips, 

That,  smiling,  seemed  to  frame,  "Thy  will  be  done," 

Till  darkness  hid  her  from  our  earthly  sun. 

O  Love  supreme  !  O  Love  that  never  yet 
In  sharpest  hour  of  need  forsook  thine  own  ! 

An  aureole  of  light  henceforth  is  set 

Above  the  shadows  of  that  vacant  throne. 

Within  Escurial's  gloom  her  dust  shall  lie, 

But  Love  has  borne  her  to  the  upper  sky. 


THE   FOUNDLING. 

'"THERE  'S  the  glimmer  of  dew  on  the  bending  grass ; 

There  's  arrowy  light  from  the  sunny  sky, 
Where  the  soft  fleece  clouds,  as  they  meet  and  pass, 

Like  the  pictured  sails  in  a  dream  go  by ; 
And,  herself  as  fair  as  a  morn  of  May, 
The  maiden  walks  in  the  early  day. 

Hark  !  What  was  that  from  the  tangled  hedge 
A  little  way  back  ?  'T  was  a  cry  of  pain, 

And  she  paused  at  the  pasture's  rippling  edge, 
And  listened.  It  came  to  her  ear  again,  — 

The  moan  of  a  wee  lost  lamb,  distressed, 

And  soon  she  was  clasping  it  to  her  breast. 

Wrapping  it  close  in  her  mantle's  fold, 

And  over  it  grieving  with  gentle  eyes. 
"  Poor  little  wanderer,  faint  and  cold, 

Another  time  will  you  not  be  wise,  — 
Stay  by  the  flock  in  a  safer  place? " 
She  seems  to  say  with  her  tender  face. 


The  Foundling.  203 

That  pitiful  face  reveals  a  heart 

With  room  to  cherish  all  helpless  things ; 

Hers,  you  may  guess,  is  the  magic  art 

Which  everywhere  healing  and  comfort  brings. 

Deft  are  her  fingers  with  womanly  skill, 

And  womanly  sweet  is  her  gracious  will. 

The  wee  white  lamb  has  forgotten  fear ; 

Content  he  lies  in  the  loving  arms, 
Which  cradle  him  soft  in  a  hemisphere 

Of  fond  caresses  and  placid  charms. 
Frightened  and  chilled  was  the  waif  last  night, 
But  love  has  found  him  at  morning's  light. 


STRAWBERRY  TIME. 


the  strawberry,  ripening,  blushes 
To  meet  the  sweet  looks  of  the  sun, 
Then  faintly  the  fair  laurel  flushes  ; 
Then  gayly  the  eager  winds  run 
To  tell,  upon  hillside  and  meadow, 

The  coming  of  festival  days, 
While  out  from  his  nest  in  the  shadow 
The  bird  pours  his  jubilant  lays. 

The  pasture-lands  dimple  with  clover, 

The  buttercups  dazzle  and  shine  ; 
The  wide  fields  of  summer  brim  over 

With  dreams  of  a  perfume  divine  ; 
And  forth  go  the  children  as  merry, 

As  harvesters  seeking  for  sheaves, 
With  bright  eyes  discerning  the  berry, 

A  ruby  mid  emerald  leaves. 


Strawberry  Time.  205 

Brown-handed,  sun-freckled,  they  linger 

To  eat  the  sweet  globes  while  they  pick ; 
What  care  they  for  stain  on  the  finger, 

So  ripe  is  the  treasure,  and  thick ; 
Like  music  their  innocent  laughter 

Rings  out  o'er  their  frolic  and  haste ; 
Ah  !  never  will  berries  hereafter 

Hold  nectar  so  rich  to  the  taste. 

Hereafter,  when  shrill  voices  cry  them, 

Discordant,  through  streets  of  the  town, 
And  gravely  they  bargain  and  buy  them, 

Their  value  in  silver  pay  down,  — 
Yet  haply  remembering  childhood, 

They  '11  say,  as  at  evening  they  eat : 
"  The  berries  we  found  in  the  wildwood, 

Unsugared,  were  surely  more  sweet." 

And  yet  can  the  dear,  evanescent, 

Illusive,  full  charm  of  the  fruit 
Be  known  to  the  children  whose  present 

Suffices  unto  them?     The  root 
Of  every  glad  hour  of  pleasure 

Must  grow,  deeply  struck,  in  the  past ; 
And  so  is  our  berry  a  treasure 

Less  prized  at  the  first  than  at  last. 


206  Strawberry  Time. 

For  now  as  the  shy  things  are  blushing 

Low  down  mid  their  leaves  on  the  ground, 
As  the  delicate  laurels  are  flushing 

On  hillock  and  meadow  and  mound,  — 
We,  working  and  weary  with  labor, 

Shut  in  among  houses  of  brick, 
Hear  sounds,  as  of  pipe  and  of  tabor, 

From  fields  where  the  berries  are  thick. 


THE   ENGLISH   FARM-LABORER'S    SUNDAY. 

'~pHE  winds  are  sweet  that  sweep  to-day 

O'er  miles  of  tilth  and  fallow, 
And  clear  the  ring  from  far  away 

Of  Sabbath  chimes  that  hallow 
And  set  the  morning  by  itself, 

Serenest  of  the  seven. 
"  Take  down  the  Bible  from  the  shelf, 

And  read  the  words  of  heaven." 

Did  some  one  speak  ?    The  house  is  still ; 

Yet  if  a  voice  had  spoken, 
Not  swifter  could  the  low  "  I  will " 

Have  sent  responsive  token. 
The  old  man  bends  above  the  page, 

With  reverent  eyes  that  linger, 
While  traces  out  its  counsel  sage 

His  slow  and  patient  finger. 


208  English  Farm- Laborer's  Sunday. 

Flows  on  the  stately  Hebrew  psalm 

In  grand  heroic  measure  ; 
It  floods  his  soul  with  waves  of  calm, 

It  fills  his  heart  with  pleasure  : 
"  Commit  thy  way  unto  the  Lord, 

And  trust  His  loving-kindness  ; 
He  '11  keep  thee  fast  in  watch  and  ward, 

And  smite  thy  foes  with  blindness. 

"  His  rain  upon  thy  pasture-land 

Shall  fall  in  gentle  showers  ; 
His  sun  shall  rise  in  beauty  grand 

On  orchard,  grain,  and  flowers. 
Though  all  thy  loved  should  leave  thy  side, 

Thou  shalt  be  never  lonely, 
For  near  thee  will  the  Lord  abide, 

If  thou  wilt  serve  Him  only." 

So,  little  learned  in  human  lore, 

Nor  skilled  in  disputation, 
The  simple  peasant  leans  the  more 

Upon  the  great  salvation  ; 
In  honest  duty  spends  his  days, 

And,  friendly  with  his  neighbor, 
He  .sends  to  God  the  highest  praise 

Through  self-denying  labor. 


English  Farm- Laborer's  Sunday.  209 

To  him  how  dear  the  Sabbath  rest ! 

How  more  than  dear  the  Bible  ! 
In  childlike  faith  his  life  is  blessed ; 

And  vain  were  skeptic's  libel, 
To  shake  the  trust,  sublimely  strong, 

By  which  he  holds  on  heaven, 
And  makes  his  lowly  life  a  song 

Each  day  in  all  the  seven. 


A  TWILIGHT  MEMORY. 


A  T  fall  of  night,  when  shadows  gray 
Enfold  the  feet  of  fading  day, 


Or  on  the  far  horizon's  rim, 

The  rain-clouds  gather  vast  and  dim, 

From  some  vague  coast  of  memory, 
A  childhood  scene  returns  to  me. 

I  see  my  mother,  sweet  and  fair, 
Her  gentle  face  'neath  shining  hair. 

I  see  myself,  her  little  one, 

With  pensive  looks,  when  day  is  done. 


A   Twilight  Memory. 

Uncertain  what  the  dark  may  bring, 
I  nestle  'neath  my  mother's  wing ; 

And  even  there,  by  fears  possessed, 
My  trembling  heart  is  not  at  rest. 

A  tender  voice,  I  hear  it  yet, 

Bids  :  "  Light  the  lamps  for  Margaret." 

And  swift  the  cheery  rays  are  poured 
O'er  curtained  room  and  smiling  board. 

However  thick  the  shadows  meet 
To-day  around  my  weary  feet, 

No  mother's  presence  at  my  side 

Is  strong  to  comfort,  bless,  and  guide. 

The  dear  one,  lifted  out  of  sight, 
Dwells  evermore  in  Love's  own  light ; 

But  tones  my  heart  can  ne'er  forget, 
Above  me  sound  in  blessing  yet ; 


A   Twilight  Memory. 

And  one  by  one,  like  stars  that  rise 
Serene  amid  the  steadfast  skies, 

The  lamps  of  faith  their  glow  divine 
Diffuse  around  this  life  of  mine, 

And,  sheltered  e'en  when  storms  are  wild, 
I  dwell  a  safe  and  happy  child. 


MY  LORD  AND   MY  GOD.' 


"TH  WAS  evening  and  the  doors  were  shut, 

No  bar  was  that  to  him 
Who  came  in  kingly  silence  through 

The  twilight  growing  dim. 
In  tones  as  tender  as  the  dew, 
He  blessed  them  :  "  Peace  be  unto  you." 

It  was  the  Master's  loving  word, 

The  Master's  form  they  knew ; 
And  nearer  to  the  risen  Lord 

The  glad  disciples  drew. 
What  hope  was  in  their  hearts  that  hour  ! 
What  glory  in  his  wondrous  power  ! 

His  eyes  in  matchless  pity  dwelt 

On  one  reluctant  face, 
On  one  who  knew  not  all  the  bliss 

Of  full-believing  grace. 
That  soul  still  fettered  fast  with  doubt, 
The  love  of  Jesus  singled  out. 


214  "My  Lord  and  my  God" 

"  Behold,"  said  Christ,  "  these  wounds  of  mine ; 

Feel  where  the  nails  were  driven." 
Ah,  swift  he  knew  the  voice  divine  ! 

His  heart  with  love  was  riven  ; 
And  leaped  like  flame  his  answering  word  : 
"  I  know  thee  now,  —  my  God,  my  Lord." 

Then  soft  from  Jesus'  lips  there  fell 

A  thought  exceeding  sweet ; 
Let  age  to  age  its  message  tell, 

Its  tenderness  repeat  • 
"  Thou  hast  believed,  for  thou  hast  seen, 
Blessed  are  they  who  have  not  seen, 

And  yet  have  trusted."  We  rejoice, 
Dear  Lord,  and  bless  thy  name ; 

How  sacred  was  that  time  when  first 
To  us  that  insight  came, 

And  we  beheld  thee,  crucified,  — 

Thy  pierced  hands,  thy  riven  side. 

Yet,  seeing  not  the  cross  alone, 

Our  eyes  were  lifted  high ; 
We  knew  thee  sitting  on  the  throne, 

We  felt  thee  drawing  nigh  ; 
And  all  our  doubts  were  hushed  to  peace, 
And  from  their  chains  we  had  release. 


THE   BETTER   LIFE. 


"PROM  silken  cords  of  earth's  delight, 

From  iron  chains  of  care, 
O  set  us  free  when,  in  thy  sight, 
Dear  Lord,  we  kneel  in  prayer  ! 

Forbid  that  dreams  of  ease  and  cheer, 
Or  transient  thoughts  of  pride, 

Should  make,  an  alien  atmosphere, 
To  drift  us  from  thy  side. 

Forgive  if  moaning  discontent 

In  unbelief  complains ; 
Forgive  if  when  our  hearts  are  rent 

We  think  but  of  their  pains. 

Still  come  thyself  in  darkest  hours, 
And  cleave  the  gloom  with  rays 

So  bright  that  all  our  grateful  powers 
Shall  turn  from  grief  to  praise. 


216  The  Better  Life. 

Still  consecrate  our  joyful  times 
With  bliss  beyond  compare, 

While  faith  the  spirit's  strength  sublimes, 
And  robes  of  light  we  wear. 

Oh  lift  us  to  the  better  life  ! 

These  shadows  corne  and  go  ; 
But  where  thou  art  above  the  strife, 

The  winds  of  heaven  blow. 


HITHERTO. 

npO  bluest  skies  that  arch  the  way 
I  lift  my  thankful  eyes  to-day. 
The  sunlight  falls,  a  golden  tide, 
O'er  airy  forests,  green  and  wide ; 
Pure  t>dors  drift  the  morning  through, 
And  God  has  led  me  hitherto. 

Sweet  flower-perfumes  thrill  the  air, 
As  if  from  censer  swung  at  prayer ; 
And  sweeter  fragrance  fills  my  life 
With  all  my  Father's  goodness  rife ; 
He  gives  me  roses  after  rue, 
And  he  has  kept  me  hitherto. 

What  joy  to  take  his  guiding  hand, 

To  trust,  if  not  to  understand,  — 

To  rest  through  change  and  toil  and  tears 

On  him,  whose  grand  eternal  years 

In  ever  living  youth  are  new, 

And  cry,  "  He  leads  me  hitherto." 


2i8  Hitherto. 

Though  other  days  have  left  their  trace 

Of  weariness  upon  my  face  ; 

Though  sometimes  from  my  harp  the  tone 

Hath  been  a  miserere  moan  ; 

Yet  God  is  good ;  't  is  his  to  do, 

And  mine  to  follow  hitherto. 

Though  days  to  come  may  often  be 
With  burdens  crowded  full  for  me  ; 
Though  hope  deferred  may  cast  a  shade 
Across  my  spirit ;  undismayed 
I  '11  meet  them,  one  by  one,  for  through 
Such  days  He  brought  me  hitherto. 

No  darkest  night  shall  ever  hide 
This  beacon,  flaming  o'er  the  tide  ; 
My  life  shall  have  a  sweet  refrain  ; 
For,  victor  over  grief  and  pain, 
I  bless  the  Lord,  whose  mercies  new 
Have  helped  and  cheered  me  hitherto. 


THE   HEAVEN-SIDE. 

'"pHE  sky  was  soft  with  tender  blue, 

As  heaven  itself  were  shining  through, 
And  far  above  our  restless  world 
Its.  bannered  peace  was  wide  unfurled. 

The  distant  mountains'  purple  line 
Was  bathed  in  splendor  all  divine, 
And  seemed  the  valley's  cup  to  brim 
With  waves  of  beauty  to  the  rim. 

The  very  wind  was  soft  and  sweet 
That  rocked  the  grass- blades  at  our  feet, 
And  gently  did  the  zephyrs  blow 
Across  the  buckwheat's  billowy  snow. 

When  lo,  a  change  !     The  tranquil  sky 
Grew  dark,  —  the  thick  clouds  drifted  by ; 
Like  battled  hosts  in  war's  array, 
Their  vengeful  ranks  assault  the  day  ! 


The  Heaven- Side. 

And  grim  and  sullen,  fold  on  fold, 
They  hide  the  summer's  shining  gold, 
Till  wood  and  field  and  wayside  path 
Are  menaced  in  their  stormy  wrath. 

Still  o'er  them  soft  that  tender  blue, 
With  heaven's  brightness  gleaming  through, 
All  steadfast,  radiant,  undismayed, 
Too  lifted  up  to  be  afraid. 

And  while  we  shivered  in  the  gray 
Thick-falling  gloom  that  wrapped  the  day, 
Lo,  touched  by  spears  of  sunny  light, 
The  clouds  were  edged  with  sparkling  white 

Ah  !  looked  on  from  the  heaven-side, 
They  surely  must  be  glorified, 
And  where  God  sees  them,  floating  fair, 
Seem  isles  of  peace  in  upper  air. 


A  VESPER  SONG. 


HPHE  clouds  of  the  sunset,  fold  on  fold, 

Are  purple  and  tawny,  and  edged  with  gold. 


Soft  as  the  silence  after  a  hymn 

Is  the  hush  that  falls  as  the  light  grows  dim, 

And  the  phantom  feet  of  the  shadows  glide 
To  the  maple-tops  and  the  river's  tide. 

Not  the  thought  of  a  sound  is  heard, 
Till  the  dusk  is  thrilled  by  a  hidden  bird 

That  suddenly  sings,  as  the  light  grows  dim, 
Its  wonderful,  passionate  vesper  hymn. 

Sweet  as  the  voice  of  an  angel's  call, 
Sent  to  me  from  the  jasper  wall, 


A  Vesper  Song. 

Is  the  music  poured  from  that  tiny  throat, 
A  message  of  comfort  in  every  note. 

I  know  not  where,  in  the  leafy  tree, 
The  dear  little  warbler's  home  may  be, 

Nor  care  I  to  find  by  a  thoughtful  quest 
Its  cunningly  woven  castled  nest. 

The  singer  was  less  to  my  heart  to-night 

Than  the  song  he  sent  through  the  parting  light. 

Its  overflow  of  a  joy  intense 
Came  unto  me  like  a  recompense, 

For  the  undertone  of  an  aching  care 

That  had  chilled  my  praise  and  chained  my  prayer. 

There  are  in  this  world,  where  God  is  King, 
Some  who  have  nothing  to  do  but  sing ; 

Some  who  are  all  too  blithe  to  keep 
Pent  up  the  voice  of  their  rapture  deep, 


A  Vesper  Song.  223 

Though,  it  may  be,  low  under  waves  of  pain 
They  found  the  pearl  of  their  purest  strain. 

Listening,  we  have  naught  to  say 
Concerning,  to  them,  the  Master's  way, 

Only  this  :  it  was  surely  best, 

Since  it  taught  them  songs  so  full  of  rest ; 

And  this  :  that  never  a  folding  wing 

Should  cover  a  breast  that  was  meant  to  sing, 

And  show  the  path  to  a  lighted  ark, 
Perhaps  to  some  one  lost  in  the  dark. 


iv'1$r^ 


A     RAINY     DAY. 


A  LL  day,  against  the  window  pane, 

The  fitful  dashing  of  the  rain 
Keeps  up  in  dreary  monotone 
A  minor  music  of  its  own,  — 
A  weary  moan  of  restless  pain, 
This  chorded  anthem  of  the  rain. 

My  tired  heart  within  me  hears, 
Too  tired  to-day  for  easeful  tears, 
And  well  interprets  every  sound 
From  sobbing  sky  and  barren  ground. 
Like  one  who  from  the  organ-keys, 
Awakens  threaded  harmonies, 
To  fit  in  pauses  of  the  strain 
Another  sings,  I  list  the  rain, 
And  try,  through  woven  words  of  mine, 
Its  cadenced  melody  to  twine. 


A  Rainy  Day.  225 

All  day  it  falls  on  little  beds 
That  pillow  softly  baby  heads, 
From  mother's  tender  nursing  gone, 
While  yet  her  life  was  in  its  dawn. 
Alas,  how  many  a  mother  feels 
The  coldness  of  each  drop  that  steals 
Through  that  green  coverlet  that  lies 
Between  her  darling  and  her  eyes  ! 

All  day  it  shuts  the  cheerful  sun 
From  many  a  longing,  lonely  one. 
No  sparkling  rift  of  heaven's  blue 
Breaks  regnant  all  its  mystery  through ; 
No  golden  radiance  cleaves  a  way 
Through  close-set  banks  of  vapor  gray, 
Slow-beating  on  the  darkened  pane 
All  day,  the  sleet,  the  storm,  the  rain  ! 

Yet  think,  impatient  soul  of  mine, 
That  somewhere  still  the  sun  must  shine, 
That  somewhere  other  hearts  are  glad, 
And  days  are  not  forlorn  and  sad, 
And  that  God's  benedictions  still . 
Fall  from  stern  lips  of  seeming  ill. 


226  A  Rainy  Day. 

In  memory's  light  these  drops  may  be 
Like  glittering  amethysts  to  thee, 
And  all  thy  being  yet  may  bless 
His  patient  care  and  tenderness, 
Who  bids  thee  trust  Him,  not  in  vain, 
For  days  clear  shining  after  rain. 


A  MASQUERADE. 


A    LITTLE  old  woman  before  me 

Went  slowly  down  the  street, 
Walking  as  if  aweary 

Were  her  feeble  tottering  feet. 

From  under  her  old  poke-bonnet 

I  caught  a  gleam  of  snow, 
And  her  waving  cap-string  floated 

Like  a  pennon  to  and  fro. 

In  the  folds  of  her  rusty  mantle, 
Sudden  her  footstep  caught, 

And  I  sprang  to  keep  her  from  falling 
With  a  touch  as  quick  as  thought. 

When,  under  the  old  poke-bonnet, 

I  saw  a  winsome  face, 
Framed  in  with  the  flaxen  ringlets 

Of  my  wee  daughter  Grace. 


228  A  Masquerade. 

Mantle  and  cap  together 
Dropped  off  at  my  very  feet, 

And  there  stood  the  little  fairy,  — 
Beautiful,  blushing,  sweet. 

Will  it  be  like  this,  I  wonder, 
When  at  last  we  come  to  stand 

On  the  golden,  gleaming  pavement 
Of  the  blessed,  blessed  land? 

Losing  the  rusty  garments 

We  wore  in  the  years  of  Time, 

Shall  our  better  selves  spring  backward 
Serene  in  a  youth  sublime  ? 

Instead  of  the  shapes  that  hid  us, 
And  made  us  old  and  gray, 

Shall  we  get  our  child-hearts  back  again, 
With  a  brightness  that  will  stay  ? 

I  thought  —  and  my  little  daughter 
Slipped  her  dimpled  hand  in  mine. 

"  I  was  only  playing,"  she  whispered, 
"  That  I  was  ninety-nine." 


THE      RIVER. 


pAR  up  on  the  mountain  the  river  begins,  — 

I  saw  it,  a  thread  in  the  sun. 
Then  it  grew  to  a  brook,  and,  through  dell  and 

through  nook, 
It  dimpled  and  danced  in  its  fun. 

A  ribbon  of  silver,  it  sparkled  along 
Over  meadows  besprinkled  with  gold  ; 

With  a  twist  and  a  twirl,  and  a  loop  and  a  curl, 
Through  the  pastures  the  rivulet  rolled. 

Then  on  to  the  valleys  it  leaped  and  it  laughed, 

Till  it  stronger  and  stiller  became  ; 
On  its  banks  the  tall  trees  rocked  their  boughs  in 
the  breeze, 

And  the  lilies  were  tapers  aflame. 


230  The  River. 

The  children  threw  pebbles,  and  shouted  with  glee 
At  the  circles  they  made  in  the  stream ; 

And  the  white  fisher-boat,  sent  so  lightly  afloat, 
Drifted  off  like  a  sail  in  a  dream. 

Deep-hearted,  the  mirth  of  its  baby-life  past, 

It  toiled  for  the  grinding  of  corn  ; 
Its  shores  heard  the  beat  of  the  lumberman's  feet, 

His  raft  on  its  current  was  borne. 

At  inlet  and  cove,  where  its  harbors  were  fair, 

Vast  cities  arose  in  their  pride, 
And  the  wealth  of  their  streets  came  from  beautiful 
fleets, 

Forth  launched  on  its  affluent  tide. 

The  glorious  river  swept  on  to  the  sea, 

The  sea  that  engirdles  the  land  ; 
But  I  saw  it  begin  in  a  thread  I  could  spin, 

Like  a  cobweb  of  silk,  in  my  hand. 

And  I  thought  of  the  river  that  flows  from  the  throne 
Of  the  love  that  is  deathless  and  free,  — 

Of  the  grace  of  his  peace  that  shall  ever  increase, 
Christ-given  to  you  and  to  me. 


The  River.  231 

Far  up  on  the  mountain,  and  near  to  the  sky, 

The  cup  full  of  water  is  seen, 
That  is  brimmed  till  its  tide  carries  benisons  wide 

Where  the  dales  and  the  meadows  are  green. 

Is  thy  soul  like  a  cup  ?     Let  its  little  be  given, 

Not  stinted  nor  churlish,  to  One 
Who  will  fill  thee  with  love,  and  his  faithfulness  prove, 

And  bless  thee  in  shadow  and  sun. 


A  MAPLE  LEAF. 


CO  bright  in  death  I  used  to  say, 

So  beautiful  through  frost  and  cold  ! 

A  lovelier  thing  I  know  to-day, 
The  leaf  is  growing  old,         » 

And  wears  in  grace  of  duty  done, 

The  gold  and  scarlet  of  the  sun. 


"  EVEN   SO,  COME." 


Lord  Jesus  ! 
The  days  are  long,  the  nights  are  slow, 
The  pulse  of  life  beats  faint  and  low ; 
The  bloom  is  gone  from  flower  and  tree, 
What  can  we  do  but  wait  for  thee  ? 

Come,  Lord  Jesus  ! 

When  youth  was  glad  with  song  and  love 
And  halcyon  was  the  sky  above, 
When  light  the  step,  the  spirit  free, 
Then  less  our  hearts  cried  out  for  thee  ! 

Come,  Lord  Jesus  ! 
Ah,  voice  that  soundeth  in  the  room  ! 
Ah,  Face  Divine  that  breaks  the  gloom  ! 
O  tones  that  chide  our  strange  unrest, 
And  bid  us  lean  upon  thy  breast. 


234  "Even  So,  Come" 

Come,  Lord  Jesus  ! 
"  Yes,  child  of  mine,  I  come  to  thee, 
But  thou  art  all  too  blind  to  see  ; 
That  pain  and  loss  and  ruth  and  rift 
May  each  be  my  most  gracious  gift." 

Come,  Lord  Jesus  ! 
Come  as  thou  wilt,  in  peace,  in  strife, 
But  with  us  stay  in  death  and  life, 
Reveal  thyself  to  eyes  that  ache, 
And  bless  us  for  thy  own  dear  sake. 

Even  so,  come. 


THE   EVER-OPEN   WAY. 

T  SOMETIMES  like,  when  all  my  way  seems  barred, 

To  mind  me  of  the  story  told  of  one, 
Whose  faith  the  dawn  of  Britain's  freedom  starred 
Ere  yet  had  beamed  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

Brave  Cuthbert  who,  from  tending  of  the  sheep 
On  wind-swept  hillsides  bleak,  near  Lammermoor, 

Went  forth  the  Master's  scattered  flock  to  keep, 
And  preach  his  love  who  says,  "  I  am  the  Door." 

Once,  tossed  upon  an  angry  boiling  sea, 
His  boat  was  dashed  upon  a  dreary  shore. 

Heart-sick,  and  like  to  die,  his  comrades  three 
Cried  :  "  Cuthbert,  let  us  perish  —  hope  is  o'er, 

"  The  furious  tempest  shuts  the  water-path  ; 

The  snow-storm  blinds  us  on  the  bitter  land." 
"  Now  wherefore,  friends,  have  ye  so  little  faith?  " 

God's  servant  said ;  and,  stretching  forth  his  hand, 


236  The  Ever- Open  Way. 

He  lifted  up  his  reverent  eyes,  and  spake  : 
"  I  thank  thee,  Lord,  the  way  is  open  there  ! 

No  storm  above  our  heads  in  wrath  shall  break, 
And  shut  the  heavenward  path  of  love  and  prayer. 

Sweet  to  me  comes  old  Cuthbert's  word  to-day ; 

Sweet  is  the  thought  that  Christ  is  always  near ; 
I  seek  him  by  the  ever-open  way, 

Nor  yield  my  courage  to  a  shuddering  fear. 

The  storm  may  darken  over  land  and  sea, 
But  step  by  step  with  Christ  I  walk  along ; 

Dear  Christ,  the  storm  and  sun  are  both  of  thee, 
And  thou  thyself  art  still  my  strength  and  song. 


MOTHER'S  WORK. 


patient  woman,  o'er  your  children  bending 
To  leave  a  good-night  kiss  on  rosy  lips, 
Or  list  the  simple  prayers  to  God  ascending 

Ere  slumber  veil  them  in  its  soft  eclipse,  — 
I  wonder,  do  you  dream  that  seraphs  love  you, 

And  sometimes  smooth  the  pathway  for  your  feet ; 
That  oft  their  silvery  pinions  float  above  you, 
When  life  is  tangled  and  its  cross-roads  meet  ? 

So  wan  and  tired,  the  whole  long  day  so  busy ; 

To  laugh  or  weep,  at  times,  you  hardly  know ; 
So  many  trifles  make  the  poor  brain  dizzy, 

So  many  errands  call  you  to  and  fro. 
Small  garments  stitching,  weaving  fairy  stories, 

And  binding  wounds  and  bearing  little  cares, 
Your  hours  pass  ;  unheeded  all  the  glories 

Of  that  great  world  beyond  your  nursery  stairs. 


238  Mothers  Work. 

One  schoolmate's  pen  has  written  words  of  beauty 

Her  poems  sing  themselves  into  the  heart. 
Another's  brush  has  magic.     You  have  duty, 

No  time  to  spare  for  poetry  or  art,  — • 
But  only  time  for  training  little  fingers, 

And  teaching  youthful  spirits  to  be  true  ; 
You  know  not  with  what  famine  woman  lingers, 

With  art  alone  to  fill  her,  watching  you. 

And  yet,  I  think  you  'd  rather  keep  the  babies, 

Albeit  their  heads  grow  heavy  on  your  arm, 
Than  have  the  poet's  fair,  enchanted  may-bes,  — 

The  artist's  visions,  rich  with  dazzling  charm. 
Sweet  are  the  troubles  of  the  happy  hours, 

For  even  in  weariness  your  soul  is  blest ; 
And  rich  contentment  all  your  being  dowers, 

That  yours  is  not  a  hushed  and  empty  nest. 


IN  THE   KING'S  BANQUETING   HOUSE. 

T  WALK  on  my  way  with  the  others,  I  toil  at  my  daily 

task; 
I  am  sometimes  weary  and  careworn,  and  sometimes  I 

wear  a  mask, 
And  cover  with  smiles  and  sunshine  a  heart  that  is  full  of 

tears ; 
And  yet,  and  yet,  there  is  joy  divine,  and  it  crowns  my 

burdened  years ; 

For  sometimes  there  comes  a  whisper  in  the  silence  of  my 

soul : 
"  Rise  up,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  forget  the  sorrow  and 

dole, 
And  come  to  the  house  of  the  banquet,  and  feast  with  the 

King  to-day." 
And  oh  !  when  I  hear  the  summons,  is  there  aught  except 

to  obey? 


240  In  the  King's  Banqueting  House. 

And  the  look  on  his  brow  is  loving,  a  brow  that  was  worn 

and*marred ; 
And  the  hands  I  clasp  with  reverence,  —  ah  me  !  they  are 

torn  and  scarred ; 
And  the  voice  that  speaks  is  tender.     "It  is  finished," 

that  dear  voice  said, 
When  on  Calvary's  mount  for  me,  for  me,  he  bowed  his 

fainting  head. 

Oh,  't  is  sweet  to  sit  at  the  banquet,  a  guest  of  the  King 

divine ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  taste  the  heavenly  bread,  and  to  drink  the 

heavenly  wine,  — 

To  look  away  from  the  earth-cares,  to  lift  the  spirit  above, 
To  sit  in  his  shadow  with  great  delight,  under  his  banner 

of  love. 

And  what  if  the  way  be  dreary,  and  I  sometimes  think  it 

long? 

There 's  always,  sooner  or  later,  a  bit  of  a  cheery  song. 
And  what  if  the  clouds  above  me  are  sometimes  thick  and 

gray? 
There  is  never  a  cloud  on  the  Mercy-seat,  where  I  meet 

him  day  by  day. 


In  the  King's  Banqueting  House.  241 

So  I  go  on  my  way  with  the  others,  I  am  often  weary  and 

spent ; 

But  aye  in  my  heart  I  am  thankful,  happy  and  well  content ; 
For  oft  in  the  early  dawning,  and  oft  at  the  fall  of  day, 
He  calls  me  in  to  the  banquet,  and  what  can  I  do  but 

obey? 


THE   FAIRY'S  GIFT. 


the  little  one's  cradle 
The  fairies  were  bending,  to  see 
How  like  to  a  beautiful  fairy 
A  child  of  the  earth  could  be. 


"What  shall  we  do  for  the  baby?" 
Whispered  the  Elfin  queen. 

"  I  '11  give  her  the  loveliest  dimples," 
Said  one,  "  that  ever  were  seen." 

"  I  '11  kiss,"  said  another  softly, 
"  Her  feet  so  slender  and  small, 

And  ever  on  beautiful  errands 
Their  lightsome  steps  shall  fall." 


The  Fairy's  Gift.  243 

"  Mine  shall  be  fairer  treasure  : 

I  '11  give  her,  for  a  spell, 
A  hand  like  pearl,  with  rosy  tips, 

Like  the  inner  side  of  a  shell ; 

"  With  a  touch  as  soft  as  a  zephyr's, 

The  flaxen  curls  between, 
I  '11  dower  thee  royally,  little  one." 

Then  spoke  the  Fairy  Queen,  — 

"  The  years  shall  bring  thee  changes, 

But  ever,  in  storm  or  shine, 
The  power  of  winning  hearts,  dear, 

And  holding  them  fast,  be  thine." 

A  rustle  as  light  as  a  rose-leaf's, 

That  drops  from  a  rose  o'erblown, 
And  the  silken  wings  of  the  fairies 

From  cradle  and  babe  were  flown. 

She  grew  into  grace  and  beauty ; 

And  the  bright  years,  one  by  one, 
Brought  that  to  the  soul  of  the  maiden 

Which  the  peach  wins  from  the  sun. 


244  The  Fairy's  Gift. 

She  left  her  youth  behind  her, 

And  the  dead  leaves  round  her  fell, 

The  snow  came  down,  and  the  winter  wind, 
With  many  a  moaning  swell ; 

But  she  kept  the  gift  of  the  Fairy  — 
The  beautiful  gift  —  to  the  end ; 

And  whenever  her  heart  touched  another 
She  found  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


WASHINGTON'S    BIRTHDAY. 


"^TO  rockets  flamed  in  sudden  fire, 

No  ringing  gladness  rocked  the  spire, 
No  proud  salute,  o'er  field  and  town, 
Was  loud  each  lesser  sound  to  drown,  — 
When,  on  that  morning  long  ago, 
A  fair  young  mother,  spent  and  low, 
Heard  words  so  sweet :  "  God  give  you  joy 
The  baby  is  a  splendid  boy  !  " 

Just  words,  as  simple  and  as  sweet 
As  ever  fall  in  soft  repeat, 
Where,  after  weariness  and  strain, 
And  speechless  ecstasy  of  pain, 
In  hall  or  hut,  the  mother  waits, 
So  close  to  death's  unfolding  gates, 
Till  thrills  her  heart  the  solemn  chord, 
The  gift  exultant  from  the  Lord, 
And  all  her  life  o'erbrims  with  joy,  — 
Her  man-child  born,  her  baby  boy. 


246  Washington's  Birthday. 

The  wide  Virginia  fields  were  green 
With  tender  wheat  in  springing  sheen  ; 
O'er  mountain  slopes  and  valleys  fair 
Hung  violet  mists  in  golden  air ; 
Coy  sap  was  stirring  in  the  trees, 
Faint  fragrance  fluttered  through  the  breeze, 
And  robin  trills  and  bluebirds'  notes 
Came  shrilling  forth  from  merry  throats ; 
While  hushed  and  happy  in  her  joy 
The  mother  looked  upon  her  boy. 


She  dreamed  not  then  of  fateful  strands 
That  yet  should  fill  those  tiny  hands ; 
Nor  camp,  nor  foray,  nor  retreat, 
Nor  flag,  nor  march,  nor  stormy  beat 
Of  forceful  drum,  was  in  her  thought, 
Her  mind  with  gentle  pleasure  fraught. 
Not  hers  to  know  that  many  an  age 
Would  reap  a  sacred  heritage 
Because  her  child,  her  precious  one, 
Should  be  his  country's  noblest  son. 
No  grand  ambition  marred  the  joy 
She  poured  upon  her  baby  boy. 


Washington's  Birthday.  247 

To-day,  from  surf-washed  shore  to  shore, 
The  deep-lipped  guns  in  triumph  roar ; 
The  bells  in  stately  music  swing, 
The  sweet-voiced  children  laugh  and  sing ; 
From  mast  and  fort  the  pennons  fly, 
The  silken  banners  stream  on  high, 
And  homes  and  hearts  are  filled  with  mirth, 
Remembering  that  baby's  birth. 

To-day,  who  gaze  along  the  years, 
The  finished  time  of  toils  and  tears, 
That  still  in  varying  peace  and  strife 
Have  gone  to  make  the  nation's  life,  — 
Who  backward  gaze  must  own  the  debt 
We  owe  our  holiest  memory  yet ; 
For  all  our  best,  bequeathed,  begun, 
We  needs  must  honor  Washington, 
Still  first  among  qur  good  and  great, 
The  grandest  name  that  stars  the  state. 


THE     MINUET. 


CLUSTERED  like  roses,  the  golden  lights 

Shine  on  the  polished  and  gleaming  floor 
Garlands  are  flung  from  the  shadowy  heights 

Of  carven  cornice  and  oaken  door ; 
Banners  are  draped  on  the  stately  walls, 

Tapestries  flicker  in  faded  grace, 
And  clear  from  the  lifted  gallery  falls  — 
Waking  the  glow  in  each  happy  face  — 
The  brilliant  music,  with  rest  and  fret, 
And  slow,  sweet  strains,  for  the  minuet. 

Bright  as  the  blossoms  that  slip  the  sheath 
Of  the  folding  calyx  are  maidens  fair, 

Their  beauty  and  sparkle  hid  beneath 
Hoods  that  cover  the  crinkled  hair. 

Loosen  the  mantle,  unclasp  the  shawl, 
Let  ermine  and  sable  be  laid  aside, 


The  Minuet.  249 

For  the  small  feet  tap  at  the  tuneful  call, 

And  scarce  can  wait  through  the  dance  to  glide. 
Loiter  not  now  when  they  form  the  set 
For  the  courtly,  dignified  minuet. 

The  ladies  are  robed  in  such  rich  attire 

As  well  might  ransom  a  captive  king ; 
There  is  flashing  of  jewels  in  lucent  fire, 

There  is  diamond  lustre  in  brooch  and  ring ; 
Perfumes  of  Araby  scent  the  air, 

Flutter  the  fans,  and  the  blushes  rise 
To  cheeks  whose  velvety  dimples  wear 

The  pale  pink  flush  of  the  dawning  skies. 
Who  that  hath  seen  it  can  e'er  forget 
The  radiant  charm  of  the  minuet? 

The  men  who  bow  with  such  gallant  pride, 

Who  utter  such  compliments,  sweet  and  low, 
Are  men  who  in  many  a  list  have  tried 

The  crossing  lance  with  the  valiant  foe  : 
The  plumes  that  they  doff  with  such  knightly  ease 

Have  swept  the  field  in  a  whirl  of  steel, 
With  the  sword's  swift  rush,  like  the  sound  of  seas, 

With  mail-clad  breast  and  a  spur  at  heel ; 
But  the  triumphs  of  war  their  hearts  forget 
When  they  lead  the  fair  in  the  minuet. 


250  The  Minuet. 

Here  statesmen  keen  at  the  council  board, 

Skilled  and  shrewd  in  the  deep  debate, 
Are  bland  as  the  breezes  of  summer,  stored 

With  the  honey  of  lilies  at  evening  late. 
The  white  head  bends  to  the  golden  curls, 

The  grave  lips  stoop  to  the  snowy  hand, 
And  suave  petitions  are  dropped  like  pearls 

By  voices  used  unto  stern  command,  — 
Dame  and  demoiselle  queening  yet 
The  formal  grace  of  the  minuet. 

Touched  with  enchantment  is  love's  young  dream, 

Wreathing  its  fancy  in  glance  and  smile  ; 
Glamor  and  rapture  and  bliss  outbeam 

From  eyes  that  are  pure  of  the  worldling's  guile. 
Sanguine  and  eager  and  strong  of  soul 

Is  the  lad  in  his  nobleness,  brave  and  high,  — 
Lifted  from  aught  that  could  hold  control 

Unworthy  the  lady,  so  sweet  and  shy, 
Whose  finger-tips  with  his  own  are  met 
In  the  courteous,  reticent  minuet. 

Pause  we  now  ere  we  turn  the  page ; 

Fleet  let  the  beautiful  pageant  pass,  — 
Glimpse  of  the  pomp  of  a  splendid  age, 

Blooming  here  as  in  magic  glass. 


The  Minuet.  251 

Swift  through  the  waltz  as  we  flit  along, 

Something  we've  lost  of  the  languid  grace, 
Subtle  and  soft  as  remembered  song, 

Which  thrills  in  the  airy  and  pictured  space, 
Where  the  music  throbs  and  the  dance  is  set, — 
The  proud,  the  leisurely  minuet. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BALL:  1780. 

Suggested  by  a  Picture. 

C  CINTILLANT  stars  in  the  sky's  blue  height, 
Frost  in  the  breath  of  the  keen,  cold  night, 
Ice  that  rings  to  the  skater's  heel, 
River  and  lake  as  firm  as  steel ; 
Steeds  that  with  flying  feet  keep  time 
To  the  merry,  merry  sleigh-bells'  chime ; 
A  world  of  music,  a  world  of  snow,     . 
A  world  of  fun,  and  away  they  go, 
Beautiful,  courtly,  brave,  and  bright,  — 
Maiden,  matron,  squire,  and  knight, 
Bloom  of  the  cottage,  and  pride  of  the  hall, 
To  dance  till  dawn  at  the  Christmas  Ball. 

Splendid  the  rooms  in  vista  seen, 
Wreathed  with  the  wealth  of  the  evergreen. 
Spice  of  the  forest,  exquisite,  fine, 
Floats  aromatic  from  cedar  and  pine. 
Glossy  the  white  of  the  mistletoe, 
And  the  holly  is  vivid  in  scarlet  show. 
Floods  of  the  mellowest  lustre  fall 
From  bowery  ceiling  and  garlanded  wall. 


The  Christmas  Ball.  '  253 

Floors  are  smooth  to  the  tripping  feet, 
Blithe  hearts  thrill  with  a  quicker  beat, 
As  resonant  voices  the  measures  call, 
And  the  glad  hours  flit  at  the  Christmas  Ball. 

Gray  old  fiddler  with  solemn  face, 

Wielding  the  bow  with  a  master's  grace, 

Harper,  whose  notes  drop  liquid  sweet, 

As  the  sound  of  a  brooklet's  tinkling  feet, 

You  're  weaving  in  with  the  jocund  tunes 

Harmonies  blissful  and  magic  runes ; 

For  eyes  meet  eyes  in  electric  glance 

As  the  figures  change  in  the  mazy  dance. 

There  are  whispered  questions  and  soft  replies, 

There  is  shy  surrender  to  love's  surprise, 

And  by  and  by  there  '11  be  priest  and  ring, 

And  the  wedding  march,  and  the  hearts  that  cling, 

Semper  fidelis,  whate'er  befall, 

Pledged  this  eve  at  the  Christmas  Ball. 

Seventeen-eighty  !     A  hundred  years 

Have  sped,  with  their  mingled  smiles  and  tears, 

Since  these  ladies  rustled  in  stiff  brocade, 

These  gentlemen  bowed,  and  these  pipers  played. 


254 


The  Christmas  Ball. 

"  Promenade  all,"  and  the  century  's  past, 
We  're  rounding  the  hundredth  year  at  last. 
The  fair  and  brave  of  that  vanished  day 
Like  shadows  and  dreams  have  gone  their  way. 
The  young  grew  old,  and  the  gay  grew  tired, 
Till  nothing  so  much  their  thoughts  desired 
As  a  tranquil  place  to  lie  down  and  sleep, 
Where  the  bed  was  low  and  the  rest  was  deep. 
The  pearls,  the  rubies,  the  yellow  lace, 
Descended  oft,  with  a  lovely  face, 
To  some  bright  girl  who  was  proud  of  all 
That  grandma  had  worn  at  her  Christmas  Ball. 

And  ever  at  Christmas  the  joy-bells  ring, 

The  tapers  shine  and  the  children  sing ; 

Ever  at  Christmas  the  tidal  mirth 

Sweeps  in  its  fulness  over  the  earth. 

Roses  and  lilies  the  century  through 

Make  summer  at  Christmas  when  love  is  true  — 

The  dear  new  love  that  is  pure  as  gold, 

The  strong,  tried  love  that  is  dear  as  old. 

Oh,  swift  steeds  bound  o'er  the  powdery  snow, 

Oh,  blithe  hearts  beat  as  away  we  go. 

Eighteen-eighty  !     The  sweet  notes  fall, 

And  the  dancers  meet  at  the  Christmas  Ball. 


A   LOST   PEARL. 

T  DO  not  know  where  I  lost  it, 

For  4t  slipped  from  a  broken  string, 
And  far  and  away  from  my  sight  to-day, 
It  lies,  a  neglected  thing. 

Or  worse,  since  it  may  be  another 

Is  wearing  my  pearl  of  price, 
And  the  gem  that  was  mine,  with  its  lucent  shine, 

May  be  set  in  some  strange  device. 

I  do  not  know  when  I  lost  it ; 

It  was  just  as  the  dawning  burst 
Through  the  crystalline  bars  of  the  lingering  stars, 

That  with  sorrow  I  missed  it  first. 

Perhaps  in  an  opaline  twilight, 

Perhaps  when  the  moonbeams  lay, 
With  their  delicate  quiver  o'er  field  and  river, 

And  night  was  fairer  than  day. 


256  A  Lost  Pearl. 

I  never  dreamed  half  how  precious 

Was  my  beautiful  pearl  to  me, 
Till  the  grief  of  its  loss,  a  heavy  cross, 

I  bore  over  land  and  sea. 

You  marvel  ?    You  do  not  divine  it  ? 

I  have  lost  what  I  could  not  lend, 
What  I  '11  mourn  while  I  live  ;  for  no  art  can  give 

To  my  heart  the  lost  heart  of  my  friend. 


A     SEAFOG. 


T  TP  from  the  sea  came  a  chill  gray  mist, 

Between  midnight  hour  and  morn. 
The  stars  on  high  that  were  biding  tryst 

From  watching  eyes  were  borne  ; 
And  the  green  fields,  late  by  the  sunlight  kissed, 

In  the  darkness  lay  forlorn. 

There  seemed  no  hope  in  the  shrouded  sky, 

No  help  in  the  hills  remote  ; 
'T  was  as  if  no  more  from  the  greenwood  nigh, 

Should  the  song  of  the  robin  float ; 
Nor  the  roses  bloom,  nor  the  young  birds  fly, 

Nor  the  oriole  sound  a  note. 

For  up  from  the  sea  came  that  mist  of  death. 
So  vague,  so  wan,  so  white  ; 


258  A  Seafog. 

The  sea  of  trouble  and  woe,  and  faith 

Grew  timorous  at  the  sight, 
And  love  sank  down,  at  the  shivering  breath 

Of  a  cruel  and  creeping  blight. 

That  hour  of  waiting,  how  slowly  it  wore 

Its  heart-beats  dull  away  ! 
Distant  and  cold  seemed  the  shining  shore 

Of  the  beautiful  yesterday, 
While  wearily  life  its  burden  bore 

Along  the  sorrowful  way. 

Fair  in  the  East,  lo  !  a  line  of  light 

Pulsed  and  quivered  and  broke. 
God's  finger  moved  in  its  gentle  might, 

God's  silence  tenderly  spoke. 
The  seafog  lifted  !    The  fears  took  flight ! 

The  soul  from  its  trance  awoke. 

Ah  !  whence  shall  the  wrecked  on  the  perilous  reef 

Of  doubts,  that  like  mists  arise, 
Find  the  flash  of  the  lances  that  bring  relief, 

If  not  in  the  morning  skies  ? 
And  where  shall  they  cry,  through  their  utter  grief, 

Except  unto  Paradise  ? 


A  Seafog.  259 

The  gloom  will  pass,  and  the  glory  dawn, 

When  the  birds  begin  to  sing, 
When  the  murk  of  the  night  is  swiftly  gone, 

In  the  day's  rich  blossoming, 
And  garments  of  praise  the  soul  puts  on 

As  it  bows  to  its  gracious  King. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE"  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


£  DEC    3tt 
DE.C2 


Form  L9-40m-7,'56(C790s4)444 


276?     Poems  of  the 
P75 

1896 


PS 

2767 

P75 

1396 


3^1158  00737  0165 


